Milestones
by MagicSwede1965
Summary: Friends and relatives help Christian celebrate his 50th birthday by remembering past fantasies.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _Welcome to another memory-fest. I've been really working on this one in the hope of having at least part of it posted before Christmas, and thankfully I have enough material to put up without having finished the story just yet. As I post the initial chapters, this is a work still very much in progress and may encompass four or five adaptations before I'm finished. I hope you enjoy my slightly altered, behind-the-scenes view of episodes you might be familiar with. (And if you're not, more incentive to go out and get seasons 1-3 of "Fantasy Island" on DVD—a terrific Christmas present!) Enjoy…_

* * *

§ § § - June 2, 2008

Just home from seeing off the guests at the plane dock, Leslie glanced around the kitchen and living room, noting the time. "When's the family supposed to get here?" she asked Christian, stepping out of her shoes.

Christian mimicked her movements, urging the children to do the same. "About noon, if I remember right. That should give you and Ingrid a good four hours to get the house into good enough condition to satisfy your sense of esthetics." He grinned teasingly at her.

"Do we have to wait for them to come 'fore we can have our birthday?" Tobias wanted to know, pulling off his sneakers without bothering to untie the laces.

"Tobias, untie your shoes first," Leslie admonished him.

"And yes, you do have to wait," added Christian. "Your cousins would like to help you celebrate your birthday too, you know."

"And baths for all three of you," concluded Leslie.

Tobias, in the process of tugging his laces apart, groaned. "Aw, Mommy, do we have to? Can't we wait? I don't want a bath!"

"He might have a point," Christian remarked to his wife with a grin. "After all, he and the girls are likely to be covered with cake crumbs, ice-cream spills and who knows what else before the day is out."

She peered at him and riposted, "They can always have another bath tonight." At that Christian laughed, urging Karina and Susanna to head for the stairs. The girls didn't seem to mind the prospect of baths; they willingly trotted ahead of their father toward the stairs. On the other hand, Leslie had to grasp Tobias' arm and tow him along after her, enduring his protesting the entire way.

Seeing that Leslie was itching to start her housecleaning, Christian volunteered to give the children their collective bath; she gratefully agreed and hurried back out to begin in hers and Christian's bedroom. Ingrid, with an armload of bedsheets from the room that the triplets were still sharing for a last few nights, paused in front of the bathroom door on her way down to do a load of laundry. "Your Highness, should I wait until the children are finished before I do these?"

Christian glanced at her, smiled and shook his head. "No, I think Leslie would tell you to go ahead. Time's short—relatives are on their way in."

Ingrid dipped a quick quarter-curtsy. "Yes, Your Highness." She left, and Christian supervised his children's removal of their clothing while running a warm bath.

They spoke in _jordiska_, which was their usual habit if Leslie wasn't around. "Daddy, what's 'your highness' mean?" Karina wanted to know.

"It's a form of respectful address to a royal," Christian explained, helping her step into the tub. "Do you know what a royal is?"

"Princess Aurora!" Susanna sang out gleefully. She and Karina were old enough now to be very much into the Disney princess films, with all their accompanying paraphernalia.

"Yes, that's one example," Christian agreed, laughing. "But real royals don't live quite the same way that the Disney princesses do."

"What do they do, then?" Karina asked, while Susanna and Tobias got into a minor scuffle while jockeying for room to doff their clothing.

"You two, stop," Christian ordered mildly. "Well, Karina, nowadays princes and princesses usually help out charities, and make appearances on behalf of them, and many of them have jobs, like your cousin Gerhard, or I. In most countries, princes serve in the military for at least a while, and sometimes even some princesses do that too."

"You mean they go and fight bad guys?" put in Tobias, whose interest was piqued at the word _military_.

"Occasionally, but usually not," Christian said. "They help out at home, instead of going off to war, and they defend the home country. Not all of them do—I didn't, I merely served the required minimum military training for _jordiska_ males."

Karina's mouth dropped open, as if she had just made the connection. "Oh Daddy…if you're 'your highness', and you went and were in the army, and you have a job—you mean you're a real live prince?"

Christian laughed. "Yes, I certainly am. Your mother is a princess because she's married to me; and you and Susanna are also princesses, because you're my children. Tobias is a prince for the same reason."

Tobias grunted with dismissal; royalty seemed the province of girls more than boys, Christian thought privately, watching his daughters light up and stare at each other in wonder. "We're real live princesses!" Karina cried, thrilled.

Susanna gave Christian an accusing look. "Then why don't we have crowns and lots of glittery dresses to wear?"

Christian burst into laughter, which brought in a curious Leslie. "Princesses don't wear that sort of thing very much anymore, Susanna, I'm sorry," he chortled before he caught sight of his wife and switched to English. "Hi there, my Rose."

"What's the joke?" she inquired with a half grin of her own.

"Mommy, me and Susanna are real princesses!" Karina crowed, also in English, before anyone else could speak. "Daddy said so! He said we're all princes and princesses!"

"He's right, sweetie," Leslie said, giggling at her thorough delight. "I thought you and Susanna and Tobias already knew you're princesses and a prince."

"They may have known, but I'm not sure they really understood till now," Christian said. "Ingrid called me 'Your Highness' when she passed by a moment ago, and Karina wanted to know what it meant. Now Susanna's asking why we don't wear crowns and formal clothes that sparkle."

Leslie giggled again and ventured into the bathroom, with an armload of fresh sheets. "I'll tell you girls a secret—sometimes we do get to wear sparkly clothes."

Susanna and Karina gasped with excitement. "When do we do that?" they squealed.

"Ach," Christian groaned in mock disgruntlement, "now we've really started something. I don't think we dare tell them about the Christmas ball, because tradition says no family member can attend till he or she is at least thirteen."

"Why not? There's only nine more years to go before they come of age," Leslie kidded, making him laugh again. "Tell you what, maybe we should refer them to the family when they get in. Your nieces should have some fun telling the girls all about being a real princess in a real kingdom." She winked at him, then turned to Susanna and Karina. "I can tell you one thing for sure: a real princess never gets dirty."

They looked at each other with matching round eyes and mouths. "Then we better get clean real fast so we can still be real princesses," Karina decided.

"Yeah—me first," Susanna blurted out and grabbed a bar of soap from the soap dish. Christian flinched back as far as he could lean from his kneeling position as an unexpected tug-of-war broke out between the girls over who got the soap first, and Leslie used the altercation as an excuse to duck out of the bathroom and finish making up the bed.

"You're so dumb!" she heard Tobias taunting his sisters. "I'm glad I'm a prince, 'cause a prince can get dirty if he wants, right, Daddy?"

"Only if his parents say he can," came Christian's retort, and Leslie laughed to herself as she spread out bedsheets. She had to admit, she found it poetic justice that it was Christian their children had asked for information about being royal—the same prince who found being royal such a burden so often. It would make a cute story to tell his family.

‡ ‡ ‡

Several hours later, with the triplets scrubbed and dressed in fresh clothes, the house dusted and vacuumed, all the beds remade with clean sheets, all dishes washed and put away, and everything straightened up, Christian and Leslie and their children met a group of their family members at the plane dock on the charter that had come in a few minutes past noon. Christian's older brother, Carl Johan, was the first out, and they shortly found that he was accompanied by his entire family: his wife Amalia; their older son Gerhard, his wife Liselotta, and their children Matti, six and a half, and Toria, four and a half; and their younger son Rudolf, his wife Louisa, and their nearly-two-year-old daughter Katta. Then there came Anna-Laura with her husband Esbjörn, as well as their five-year-old granddaughter, Lisi, the orphaned child of their late daughter Cecilia. And finally, there was Anna-Kristina, along with her second husband Kai, her daughter Natalia, also five, and her two stepdaughters, Annika and Erika, ages thirteen and nine and just beginning their summer vacation.

The younger children, particularly the triplets, began hopping restlessly while the adults and Anna-Kristina's older stepdaughter greeted one another with many hugs and exclamations of how assorted children had grown. The preschoolers tore gleefully around the clearing, shouting and laughing, while Erika hung back, out of both shyness and a sense of being too old for the small children but too young for the adults and her older sister. Anna-Kristina finally took pity on her. "I think we should get to our bungalows and try to freshen up," she said, glancing at her husband.

Kai nodded, having bowed to Christian and Leslie upon greeting them. "Yes, I think so," he murmured, glancing to the royals as though for confirmation.

"They're your children, Kai," Carl Johan said with a kind smile. "You need not look to us for approval. By the way, Christian and Leslie, Kristina has decided she wants to be here as well, but she won't be arriving till later this week. There was some party she felt was too important for her to miss."

"Ah, _festaflikkan_ is alive and well, I see," noted Christian dryly, to answering laughter. "Well enough, then, we'll let Mr. Roarke know. Leslie, my Rose, do we have enough transportation for everyone?"

Amid a fair amount of confusion, family groups were duly dispatched to assorted accommodations; it had been decided that Carl Johan and Amalia would take the guest suite at Christian and Leslie's house. The triplets' party was set for three that afternoon, so it gave the newcomers time to rest a bit, change clothes and have some lunch before everyone met at the main house, where the triplets had always had family birthday parties. This year, as well, Christian and Leslie had arranged for a smaller party at their own house so that their children's friends—April Harding, daughter of Maureen and Grady; Kevin Knight, son of Lauren and Brian; and Tia Sensei, daughter of Taro, Myeko's younger brother—could be there. It would be a short party, but would satisfy the triplets' oft-stated wishes lately that they wanted a party with their friends.

As it turned out, it made for a desperately lengthy afternoon. The family party dragged on for almost three hours, till Mariki finally made a strident announcement from the porch that she was ready to serve the evening meal, and anyone who wasn't full of cake and ice cream was welcome to partake. Somewhere down the line, Christian got a phone call from Grady in regard to the children's party, and he admitted with an embarrassed laugh that it looked as though it would have to wait till around seven. In the event, it shortened the children's party, which left the kids more than ready to pack it in for the night and the adults too worn out to do more than slump in chairs and stare at one another.

"At least they're happy with their toys," remarked Amalia at last, idly watching Ingrid bustling around the kitchen and living room, clearing away the party detritus.

"I was happy with all the playclothes you brought them from Lilla Jordsö," Leslie said with a grateful smile. "I don't get away often enough to get them clothes, and these are just what we needed. Thank you so much, again."

"I'm glad they were so well received," Amalia said warmly. "To tell the truth, we had no idea what the triplets might like, and we finally decided they were better off with clothing than more toys."

"Christian's complaints trickled back to us," Carl Johan put in mischievously, and they laughed. A moment's silence fell; then the older prince got a wicked look in his eye and peered at his brother. "So, Christian, are you ready to attain a half century?"

Looking suspicious, Christian quirked an eyebrow. "Does this have to do with my actual age, or with the party you're undoubtedly anticipating?"

The brothers' wives both laughed, and Amalia teased, "Surely you didn't think you could sneak that past him."

"Actually," Leslie said, "even Christian knows there's no way on earth he can possibly escape being the celebrant at a fiftieth-birthday bash. I know my friends are cooking up something big, but they haven't actually let me in on any details, so I don't know what's going to happen in fact."

"I'd rather not see every human being on the island gathered in one spot, as they were when Leslie and I were married," Christian said, eyebrow still up, shifting his gaze to his wife. "If they happen to mention their plans, you might pass that along to them."

Carl Johan and Amalia had been looking on in amusement. "Truly," said the prince, "is every birthday on this island celebrated in that fashion?"

"Ach, no, only mine and Leslie's," Christian said, rolling his eyes, then frowning as something occurred to him. "Come to think of it, I haven't even seen a party for Mr. Roarke on his birthday. For that matter, I have no idea when his birthday is."

Leslie grinned. "Father never bothers with birthdays. I'm not even sure he remembers the date." The others laughed. "There was only one year I know of when there was any kind of celebration at all. Tattoo knew the date, and caught Father by surprise once; but it was a few months before I came here, so I never got a chance to do it myself. Worse than that, Tattoo never told me the date, so I don't know it either."

"That's patently unfair," Christian protested, raising a façade of mock annoyance. "I think he should have to put up with the same sort of silly parties you and I do."

"Mr. Roarke doesn't strike me as the kind who would be comfortable with a party that revolved around him," Carl Johan observed.

"And you think I am?" shot back Christian, evoking a burst of laughter from everyone. He favored them all with a sort of twisted grin and shifted in his chair, heaving a great sigh. "I suppose I shouldn't complain so much, little as I like the idea of this…this mega-party. If our friends want to make a fuss, they'll make a fuss. Though I sometimes wonder just whose benefit these things are really for."

"Certainly not yours, since you don't appreciate them," Carl Johan twitted him, bringing on more laughter. "Is it too early to ask about retiring for the night? Try not to get old if you can help it, _ungstebror_. It really gets on one's nerves."

"I'll see if my father-in-law has any spare youth potions lying around," Christian said deadpan. "Meantime, Leslie can show you down to the guest suite…I think I'd better make sure the triplets aren't trying to destroy their room in the last night or two before Tobias moves out."

"Oh, he's getting his own room?" Amalia exclaimed. "You'll have to show us."

"Tomorrow," Leslie promised. "They said to let the paint dry and the carpet glue set at least through tonight, so we've kept the window open and the door shut in there, and we're always double-checking the kids, especially Tobias, so they don't sneak in." Amalia laughed as she and Carl Johan got to their feet and followed her down to the guest suite, where Ingrid had left their bags earlier.

Back upstairs, where Christian had ascertained that the triplets were asleep after their long day, she yawned and indulged in a luxuriant stretch. "So let's see, what's the schedule for the rest of the month?" she murmured idly.

"Well, for one thing, we have Prince Paolono's wedding to his Lindalia at the end of the month," Christian mused, plucking a bookmark off his night table and sticking it in the volume he'd been reading in bed. "Which means that immediately after my birthday, we'll have to take that horrifically long trip to Arcolos. Anyway, it would be good to see Errico again. It could be the last time." His features grew pensive; by now it was common knowledge that Errico suffered from the same sort of inoperable brain tumor that had widowed Roarke almost thirty years before, and there was no telling how much longer he had.

"That's right, I'd almost forgotten." Leslie frowned, thinking of the Arcolosian royal family, hoping there would be enough time. Then she cleared her throat, trying to alter the darkening mood. "And if I recall correctly, we've been invited to Adam and Julianne's wedding this month too. I guess we're going to be busy."

"I suspect the banter in my office will change once that's happened. Jonathan's been teasing Julianne for the last six or eight months about her anxiety over the wedding. What he seems to forget is that he'll be the last member of his generation of their family to be unmarried, and I have no doubt he'll be in for a great deal of teasing."

"He's still got his eye on Dania, but to the best of my knowledge she isn't quite ready to take that next step. But they seem to suit each other much more than he and Ingrid did; their worlds were just too different, and there was that language barrier." Ingrid had a working knowledge of English, but she would probably never gain fluency; in fact, Leslie, who had more opportunity to practice just from hearing her husband and children speaking to one another, could get along somewhat better in _jordiska_ than Ingrid could in English. "Oh, and speaking of weddings…Myeko tells me her sister is engaged to that guy from Japan that she met at the Valentine party last year. She said something about how it was about time Sayuri got married, seeing as she's thirty-five."

Christian laughed. "That's not so old to get married, even for the first time. Well, so we are now the parents of four-year-olds. Do you feel any different?"

She grinned, changing clothes. "About as different as you'll probably feel the day you turn fifty. I'm still looking forward to sending them off to kindergarten and watching them learn new things about the world beyond their own front yard."

"Oh, tell the truth," he scoffed playfully. "You'll just be happy that they'll be someone else's responsibility for part of the day." They laughed and Leslie retreated into the bathroom to brush her teeth. Christian picked up his book again, managed to get through the rest of a chapter, then set it aside for the night when she emerged. "I just had a thought. Do you think Carl Johan and Amalia will be interested in helping us move furniture, or is it more likely they'll think of that as servants' work?"

"Seriously? I think they'll be watching. I can't see them dragging furniture around, they being royalty and all."

"I'm royalty too," he pointed out.

"But you've always tried so hard not to _act_ like royalty, at least consciously. I mean, since you were raised that way, there's a little royal core in you that comes out when you're not even aware of it. But you've spent most of your life burying that core alive, so you don't strike me as someone who thinks he's above menial tasks like lifting bureaus and taking beds apart." She caught his signature hiked brow. "Something wrong with that analysis?"

He grinned. "No, actually, I rather like it. I think it makes me sound more like a real live human being." They snickered and settled down for the night. "We may as well try to get some decent sleep; we'll need it for what lies ahead."

§ § § - June 25, 2008

Just over three weeks later, Christian found himself wide awake, early in the morning of his fiftieth birthday, and stared at the clock, wondering for some absurd reason what time of day he had been born. He supposed he'd have to ask his brother or sister about that; he remembered from one of his mother's diaries that his older siblings and his grandfather had come to see him shortly after his birth, but Queen Susanna had made no mention of the time of day. Then he rolled his eyes at himself. _Vanity, prince,_ he scolded himself, _vanity! It does no good to hold onto what you can't grasp and have no control over. Something tells me Mother would have advised me to embrace my future, not yearn for my youth._ Anyway, no matter what anyone might say, he certainly didn't feel fifty. It was hard to feel fifty (if one even _could_ "feel fifty") when he was the father of three lively four-year-olds. He rolled his head leisurely to one side and gazed at the sleeping face of his children's mother. What would their life be like in another seven years when it was Leslie's turn to face her fiftieth birthday? He smiled a little, letting himself imagine it for a few moments.

Then he felt a tickle in his nose and squeezed his eyes shut, turning his head aside, all to no avail. His explosive sneeze made Leslie stir in her sleep and then lift her head. "Well," she said dryly. "Happy birthday."

Christian let out a snort of helpless amusement and grinned apologetically at her. "I didn't mean to wake you. I'm afraid I just couldn't help it."

She giggled and cuddled up beside him. "I guess I don't have to ask why you're awake at this ridiculous hour." Slowly she ran her hand along his chest. "What should we do?"

He gave her a wry look, eyed her hand smoothing his skin, and inquired, "Is that a suggestion? To see if a fifty-year-old is still capable of making love to his wife?"

Her eyes danced. "Well, now that you mention it…" He grunted, she snickered, and then they rolled toward each other, unable to resist the idea after all.

By the time the rest of the household had begun to stir, they had made love no fewer than three times, as if something about the early hour had prompted them to take advantage, and were drowsily considering the day ahead of them. "I hope this damned party doesn't start till at least after lunch," Christian muttered. "I'd like time to contemplate attaining half a century, as Carl Johan put it."

"Hmmmm…the fine art of contemplation," Leslie mused, yawning. "It's nice if you have a chance to do it. Unfortunately, I hear noises that suggest you won't."

Sure enough, within the next thirty seconds, the triplets had all galloped into the room, clambering onto the bed and shouting, "Happy birthday, Daddy!" Christian had to laugh at their enthusiasm, and finally suggested they go find Ingrid and see what she was making for breakfast so that he and Leslie could get ready for the day. After the children had eagerly thundered downstairs, he leaned over and kissed her. "Perhaps we'd better share a shower. I don't think we'll have much chance to get cleaned up with them up and about."

"Probably not. Okay, I'll be right in," she agreed, chuckling.


	2. Chapter 2

§ § § - June 25, 2008

A little less than an hour later, they were gathered around the breakfast table with the children, Carl Johan and Amalia, with Ingrid serving. "Anna-Laura has a couple of surprises for you when we see her later today," Carl Johan told his brother, catching the triplets' attention with the word _surprises_. "I think you'll enjoy these."

"What kind of surprise, Uncle Carl Johan?" Susanna asked eagerly, getting onto her knees in the chair and leaning over the table toward him.

"You'll see at your grandfather's house this afternoon," Carl Johan promised his niece with a grin. "Aunt Anna-Laura made me promise not to tell."

"Sit properly, Susanna," Christian told his daughter, who obediently resettled herself in the chair atop a couple of old phone books. "So she thinks I'll like them, then? This should be interesting."

"What else are we gonna do today?" Tobias piped up.

"Probably get your mother and grandfather to talk some more about old fantasies they've granted," Christian said, eyeing his brother and sister-in-law, "if past experience is anything to go by."

Leslie laughed. "That seems to be a tradition with us lately. Well, that's okay, it'll be fun to reminisce."

"Are we having cake and ice cream too?" Karina asked.

They all laughed and Christian ruffled her hair. "Well, naturally, _lillan min,_ it wouldn't be a birthday party without cake and ice cream, would it?" Beaming, Karina shook her head, and Christian grinned back at her and returned his attention to the adults. "You know, it's true…Leslie and Mr. Roarke do seem to narrate a lot of their past adventures for our benefit on special occasions. Sometimes even on random occasions."

"I hope Matti's there," Tobias said. "If he's not, it's gonna be just a bunch of dumb girls, and that's no fun."

"Girls aren't dumb!" Susanna informed him hotly. "Girls are as good as boys."

"Better," Karina added loyally.

"Are not," Tobias retorted, and that immediately set off an argument that Christian and Leslie both had to put an end to, while Carl Johan and Amalia looked on with enormous amusement. The triplets kept spearing each other with mutinous glares, while Christian and Leslie looked at each other with half-smiling resignation.

"That brings back a few memories that were better left undisturbed," Amalia said.

Christian snorted. "Not on my birthday, preferably. This is quite a precocious age to start the girls-versus-boys argument."

"Would you rather start your party right now, so as to avoid further altercations?" inquired Carl Johan with a wicked twinkle in his eye.

Christian gave him a look that made him burst into laughter. "As if I really had to answer that," he said, though he too began to grin. "If I can't handle three young children, I can't possibly be expected to handle an outsized party."

But they could see, as they arrived at the main house, that it was already shaping up to be exactly as outsized as Christian dreaded. Roarke met them at the top of the steps to the porch, greeting them warmly and squeezing his grandchildren's hands as they shouted excited hellos. "It's as well you've come a bit early. Christian, your sister and her husband are waiting in the study, and for now at least, it's quieter there, before all the other party guests begin to arrive."

In Roarke's study, Anna-Laura presented her younger brother with a couple of wrapped packages that anyone could see were books. "These are both somewhat overdue, but since your birthday was coming up, we decided to save them anyway."

"Overdue, are they?" Christian echoed, settling into one of the chairs in front of Roarke's desk while Leslie took the other and the triplets hung on both their father's chair arms, staring on with eager, shining faces. "Well, let's see what they are."

"Hurry, Daddy!" Susanna urged.

He grinned at her. "I'm trying, I promise." He put one package in his lap and deftly removed the paper from the other one; it turned out to be the English translation, released only a few months before, of Anna-Laura's biography of Queen Susanna.

"Oh, that looks beautiful," Leslie said with appreciation.

"Now you can read it properly," Christian agreed, chuckling. "Perhaps they should have given it to you for your birthday last month." They laughed; they had received the original _jordiska_ version of the book the previous Christmas, but Leslie had found it difficult going and had been looking forward to the translated version so that she could read it too.

"Now this one, Daddy!" Tobias insisted, patting the remaining present as Christian handed the book over to Leslie.

"Calm down, you little tornado," Christian said, half laughing. "I can go only so fast." He picked up the second present and ripped away the paper to find that this book was the exposé that Christian had been involved with for most of the past nineteen months. Its title was _Buried_, with a subtitle of _Oil, Royalty and Far-Reaching Machinations_. Douglas Grunewald's name as author appeared just below that. While Roarke and Leslie looked on with great interest, Christian opened the book to find Grunewald's autograph on the title page, with an added notation: _In deepest appreciation for all your help and insight._ Christian smiled at that. "This will make fascinating reading."

"Look at the acknowledgments pages in both books," Anna-Laura suggested.

Christian checked through _Buried_ and discovered three pages of acknowledgments in the back, just before the index. At his sister's urging, he read aloud from the beginning: _"I have a great many people to thank for the existence of this book, but more so than anyone else, the_ jordiska _royal family, who graciously allowed me to invade their hard-won privacy for so many months. In particular, Prince Esbjörn was very generous with his time and memories, providing dozens of e-mails and many pages of handwritten letters describing his years under lock and key. I am also greatly indebted to Prince Christian, who provided much insight on his father, his oldest brother, and Ingela Vikslund; and to Princess Leslie and her father, Fantasy Island's Mr. Roarke, for allowing me the opportunity to meet with the royal family there and make my request. Were it not for them, this book wouldn't exist."_ Christian looked up in sheer amazement after a few seconds. "He lists several of the Vikslund sisters and Kurt as well, but makes it clear that they acquiesced to interviews only after hearing that we were willing to tell our side. Now if this book lives up to its promise, I'll be completely satisfied, but from what I see here, I fully expect it to."

Anna-Laura nodded. "It does."

Esbjörn put in, "Lauri and I had first crack at the book when Grunewald's publisher in Lilla Jordsö sent copies. He's just as impartial as his reputation makes him out to be, but it's clear enough that the family, other than Sire and Arnulf, was completely innocent of the machinations in the incident. There's no suggestion that Einar Vikslund is any more or less guilty than either Sire or Arnulf was; each one bears his fair share of blame, and I see not one statement that is anything less than the most meticulously researched fact. He did an excellent job. I've suggested to Gabriella that we present him with one of our national medals."

"That's a very good idea," Christian said. "How's the book selling in Lilla Jordsö?"

"It's disappearing from store shelves nearly as quickly as employees can unpack boxes and fill their display bookcases," Anna-Laura said with a grin. "I think it can be said to be the definitive account of what really happened."

"Wow," said Leslie. "I don't know which one I'll want to read first." They all laughed. "Well, in the meantime," Roarke put in, "we all have a party to attend; even as we've been sitting here discussing these books, guests have been arriving in droves." He gestured out the tall shuttered windows behind the desk, and one glance was all it took to confirm the truth of his statement. Christian groaned playfully.

"I suppose I may as well face the hordes and get this thing over with," he said, exaggerating his grumbling, and his siblings scoffed at him all the way out the door. But Christian was genuinely taken aback by the cheering and shouted birthday wishes that greeted him when he stepped out the door, surrounded by family.

When the noise had died down enough for one person to be heard speaking, and a few people (primarily Christian's friends and his brother) had goaded him to say something, he shrugged. "I wouldn't exactly call myself a public speaker, and I see no reason to glorify this any more than you already have—not that I don't appreciate this…"

"Oh, quit lying, Enstad," Nick Okada yelled playfully, and laughter welled up.

Christian grinned good-naturedly. "Well, oddly enough, as Leslie so pithily pointed out to me about a year ago, my attitude left something to be desired, and I knew this was going to happen anyway. So I've decided just to sit back and enjoy it, and be grateful that I have so many friends and family who are willing to show what I mean to them. Thank you all for going to such lengths, and I hope you'll all enjoy the party as well—whatever it may consist of." Laughter mingled with applause, and those on the porch stepped down into the side yard where there were several tables set up, containing assorted refreshments.

One of the tables was strewn with countless envelopes, and when Christian asked about it, Roarke told him, "As a matter of fact, those are birthday greetings that have been arriving here in droves for the last few weeks. The post office held them until this morning and then brought them all here in several mailbags."

"_Herregud,"_ Christian said, astonished, scanning the table. "I'm going to have to recruit half the island just to help me go through all those."

"We have plenty of time to look them over," Leslie said with a grin, coming up beside him and squeezing his hand. "There's that long flight out to Arcolos lying ahead of us, so that'll be the perfect time to get through a bunch of these."

"I'm sure the kids'll love tearing open envelopes for you, too," added Myeko, who with Nick had sauntered over to get a look. "That'll save you half the work right there."

The day went on quite like this, mostly with chatter and many birthday wishes extended to Christian, except for one point when Mariki brought out an elaborate three-tiered birthday cake topped with two candles in the shape of the numbers 5 and 0. The triplets' eyes were round with delighted anticipation, and they hung around their father's chair while everyone sang "Happy Birthday to You", barely able to restrain themselves from begging for pieces. Even then they had to wait while Christian blew out the candles, and then Mariki sternly reminded them that the person having the birthday was entitled to the first slice of cake. That didn't deter the children for long, though; once Christian had his piece, Mariki and a couple of her kitchen staff were busy for a good fifteen minutes doling out slices of cake, mostly to children, though quite a few adults got in line as well.

Late in the afternoon, people finally began to drift away, eventually leaving only their friends and Christian's family relaxing around the yard. Christian had opened a number of birthday gifts that had subsequently been taken over to the Enstads' car for the trip home later; five or six post-office buckets had been filled with the cards that had come primarily from Lilla Jordsö, though there were certainly other countries well represented in the mix; and though some of the tables had been broken down and removed, there still remained a couple of them, bearing what was left of the food, along with open soda jugs and a couple of bottles of apple wine brought in especially for Christian's birthday from his native land. Many toasts had been drunk and everyone was feeling full and somewhat lethargic, except for the children, who were running around the yard and the empty lane, apparently heedless of the increasingly late hour.

"Well, I've been waiting for this," said Anna-Laura presently, having just returned from accompanying a couple of Roarke's employees in returning Kristina to her bungalow. (That had amazed the Enstads; Christian had quipped that she must have attended too many parties before coming to his own, and therefore she'd flagged long before anyone had expected her to!) "Christian says that you often tell anecdotes about past fantasies you've granted, on special occasions, and sometimes not-so-special occasions. Mr. Roarke and Leslie, if you feel so inclined, I'd truly enjoy being witness to such a storytelling."

"Huh, perhaps we should have had you doing readings from your book about Mother," Christian put in with a grin.

"Boring," teased Rudolf, glancing into the lane where his and Louisa's daughter was tearing around with all the other children. "No offense, of course, Aunt Anna-Laura."

"None taken…I think," she retorted, drawing laughter. Her face broke into a smile. "No, in fact, I have to agree with you. What do you think?"

Roarke and Leslie looked at each other and grinned at the same moment. "I don't mind if you don't, Father," Leslie offered.

"Not at all," he agreed. "All that remains is to decide which story to tell."

There was some silence while everyone pondered this; then Maureen spoke up. "I was just thinking. This is a milestone birthday for Christian, right? Maybe you could tell us about the very first fantasy you allowed Leslie to actively help you grant, even if all she did was just go-fer duties and things like that. She tended to whitewash her anecdotes when we got together at school lunch on Monday."

"Oh?" Roarke inquired with interest.

Camille smirked. "I think she was afraid of not looking perfect in front of us."

"Hey, would you want to lay out your most embarrassing moments in front of your friends?" Lauren countered. "Of course, if you're willing to tell us now, Leslie, I'm sure not gonna stop you."

"No, I'm sure you won't," Leslie concurred amid the laughter. "I guess the first fantasy I was allowed to be involved in could be said to be a milestone for me, too. Well, in that case, grab something to drink if you want it, and we'll get started."

§ § § - February 16, 1979

Leslie was just finishing up some social-studies homework when Roarke shifted a bit in his desk chair and regarded her thoughtfully till she looked up. "So you've been here two weeks, Leslie," he said. "How do you like it thus far?"

"I like it fine, Mr. Roarke," she said, a little carefully. School was going well for her, at least as far as classes went; she had managed to orient herself so that she was able to keep up with the subject matter, even after just her first week of school here, and her homework was usually surprisingly easy. She had three friends: Myeko Sensei, Michiko Tokita, and Lauren McCormick, all of whom seemed to accept her almost as if she'd always been here. Camille Ichino was another story, but the memory of her altercation with Camille made her flinch every time she thought of it, and she wanted nothing to do with it. She had yet to tell either Roarke or Tattoo; they seemed so relieved that she was adjusting as well as she was, she dared not disillusion them by talking about Camille.

"It seems so," Roarke agreed. "You appear to be settling in well and quickly at school, and I commend you for that. I must confess I hadn't expected it of you." His smile was warm despite his words, and Leslie smiled back. "You were quite a help to me last weekend, taking the smaller duties off my hands so that I could do more to help our guests, and I want you to know I appreciate it deeply." He sat back, folding his hands over his stomach. "In fact, you did so well, I thought perhaps you'd like to take on a few more tasks this weekend."

Leslie sat up straight, interest instantly piqued. She had really enjoyed going through all the incoming fantasy-request letters, and getting responses ready to be sent out had been fun too, as if in some small way she were helping someone's lifelong dream come to fruition. It might have been mundane, but she'd had a blast. "You mean…I could maybe handle _all_ the mail this weekend?"

"Oh, not just that," Roarke assured her, smiling. "I have a few other things in mind for you to do as well. It so happens that this weekend I'll be granting three fantasies, and your help will come in very handy indeed. Do you think you're up to the challenge?"

"Absolutely, Mr. Roarke! I promise to do the best I can," Leslie exclaimed, thrilled.

He smiled, nodding in approval. "Very good. Then I'll count on you," he said, and she nodded, now so excited she could barely concentrate on the remainder of her homework.

§ § § - February 17, 1979

She dressed carefully the following morning, donning the pale-blue sundress that was one of four such garments she had chosen during her first week on the island. She felt cool and elegant wearing it; she'd often wanted sundresses when she was younger, but had never been allowed to have one new, thanks to her stingy father. Now she had four, and it was all she could do to decide which color to wear. _If I do well,_ she told herself, _maybe Mr. Roarke and Tattoo will let me help every weekend, and I could get a few white sundresses or something, and really look like I belong in the business. How cool would that be?_

Grinning to herself, highly anticipatory, she cast a last glance around her just-tidied bedroom, then hurried down the stairs just in time to hear Tattoo ringing the bell from the bell tower next to her bedroom dormer. Roarke was in the inner foyer, getting ready to leave, and looked up when he heard her coming downstairs. "Ah, Leslie, perfect timing," he said, smiling. "The car will be around any moment."

She scurried across the room and joined him, so that they exited the house together; it still felt strange to Leslie, being able to dress for summer in February. Every morning it struck her anew how warm and pleasant it was. She squinted into the sunlight as she made her way alongside Roarke to the steps; as they started down, she noticed Tattoo crossing the porch toward them from her left, concentrating fiercely on a bright-yellow notepaper with a matching envelope. She thought to greet him, but he was so absorbed that she restrained herself, particularly when she saw his frown.

Roarke checked the weather for a moment—as if he really needed to, Leslie thought, when every day she'd been here so far was as sunny and warm as the last—and then caught sight of Tattoo approaching. Looking concerned, he inquired, "Tattoo, is something the matter?"

"My cousin Hugo," said Tattoo, surprising Leslie, who had never heard Tattoo mention any relatives at all. "He's in the hospital."

Leslie blinked; Roarke looked sympathetic. "Oh, that's terrible. What's wrong?"

"His girlfriend. When she found out he was married, she threw him over."

Leslie made a face, already sure she didn't care much for this cousin of Tattoo's, when the first thing she learned about him was that he was a two-timer. Roarke seemed puzzled by something else entirely. "But why would his girlfriend throwing him over put him in the hospital?" he wanted to know.

"Because she threw him over a cliff," said Tattoo, completely straight-faced.

Roarke got an exasperated look about him; Leslie put a hand over her mouth, wanting to laugh but unsure how such a reaction would be received. Roarke, though, seemed to have lost whatever sympathy he might have felt. Shaking his head, he nudged Leslie along, and they approached the car that was just pulling up to the sidewalk. Leslie slid in beside Tattoo, forgetting Cousin Hugo in her renewed excitement.

Seeing the plane-dock clearing from her guardian's perspective was strange but fascinating; as she took up a spot to Roarke's right, he called out, "Smiles, everyone, smiles!" and gestured at the band she remembered from her own arrival two weeks before, which burst into the same lively Polynesian melody she'd heard that day. The band seemed smaller, she thought; there were only three male musicians and one female dancer, yet they sounded like a larger ensemble. She tapped her foot unconsciously to the music, while Roarke buttoned his jacket and glanced at Tattoo, who double-checked his. Satisfied that everyone was properly buttoned up where applicable, they all three turned their attention to the far end of the plane dock, where a pretty young blonde woman clad in a modest white dress with a powder-blue jacket stepped out the hatch, smiling at the attendant.

"Who is she, boss?" Tattoo asked, and it was then that Leslie remembered that same attendant telling her that Roarke explained the new fantasies to Tattoo each weekend.

"Sister Mary Theresa," said Roarke.

"You mean she's a nun?" Tattoo said, surprised. "But how come she's dressed like that?" Leslie was glad he asked; she herself wouldn't have minded asking, but she still felt much too new, and dared not open her mouth.

"Because for this weekend, she wants to be just Mary Hoyt, the woman she was before she entered the convent and became a sister almost seven years ago."

"She does not want to be a nun anymore?"

"Even she is not sure, Tattoo. Ever since her best friend, also a nun, died last month at the age of thirty-five, Sister Mary Theresa's wondering if she was ever meant to be a nun at all. And next week, she is supposed to take her final vows—vows that will last a lifetime."

Leslie could hardly imagine shutting oneself up in a convent for the rest of one's life; what a lonely existence that had to be, she thought, frowning. Never to be able to travel places? To make new friends? To fall in love and get married and have kids? Imagine what this woman was going to miss out on! She didn't speak, though, certain her opinion would not be welcome. It wasn't her life to decide about, after all.

"But boss, how can we help her?" Tattoo asked, scattering Leslie's thoughts.

"By helping to make her choice very clear. You see, several years ago, she met a young man—a man who doesn't even remember her. But there was something special about him, something that, if there were ever a man she could love—be a wife to—he could be that man." That made Leslie smile hopefully.

"Can you do that, boss? Can you bring that man here?" Tattoo asked.

"He's already on the island, Tattoo. They will meet this weekend, and Sister Mary Theresa will have to make her decision—him, or the church."

The two men looked at each other, and Leslie watched them, wondering what their ideas were. She supposed Roarke would have no opinion one way or the other, but she couldn't believe Tattoo didn't, and thought she'd ask later.

Then she noticed their attention shift and looked back at the plane dock, where this time the approaching new guest was a plain-looking, nerdy sort of guy who reminded Leslie immediately of Eugene Clarke, who'd arrived here with her two weeks before. But this man was clearly older, slowly balding, and grinning to beat the band; he was dressed in a light-blue suit with a little red bowtie. "Mr. Felix Birdsong," Roarke introduced him, "a certified public accountant all the way from Waukegan, Illinois."

"What's his fantasy, boss?" Tattoo inquired with interest, glancing at Leslie and then getting a wicked little sparkle in his eye. "Maybe Leslie'd like to guess."

Roarke and Tattoo both looked at her, and she blinked at them and reared back slightly, startled. "You haven't said a word yet, Leslie," Roarke remarked. "Have you no comment at all on our fantasies?"

She shrugged self-consciously. "Well, I _am_ brand-new and all…"

"You can still guess," Tattoo encouraged her. "C'mon, have some fun with it!"

With her guardian and his assistant watching, she returned her attention to Felix Birdsong and squinted carefully at him. "Gosh, I don't know. I mean, I remember coming here with another guy who reminds me of him, but I bet they didn't have the same fantasy." She peered at Roarke. "What _was_ Eugene Clarke's fantasy, anyway?"

Dryly Roarke replied, "He wanted to be irresistible to college women." Leslie made a face, and he chuckled. "Have you a guess, then?"

"Well…I bet this has something to do with women too," she hazarded. "Am I right?"

"Indeed you are," Roarke said with a grin. "It's a fantasy shared by millions of red-blooded men the world over. Mr. Birdsong, an avid movie fan all his life, wishes to become casting director for a major motion picture."

Tattoo lit up with amazement, while Leslie wondered what this had to do with women. "You mean, with all those beautiful starlets chasing after him to get the part?" At those words, she grinned sheepishly to herself. She had learned very quickly that Tattoo had an eagle eye for the ladies.

"Oh, much more than that, my friend," Roarke told him, with an expression that convinced Leslie he had something intriguing up his sleeve. After a moment's hesitation, he went on, "Well, you see, the name of the movie Mr. Birdsong is casting is _The Most Beautiful Girl in the World_. It will be his responsibility to decide which of the twenty gorgeous finalists already assembled here best befits the title."

If anything, Tattoo got even more excited. "You think he needs an assistant?"

Roarke gave Tattoo a look that made Leslie collapse into giggles, and shook his head a couple of times with resigned amusement before winking at Leslie and then making a discreet gesture back toward the plane dock. This time, the new arrival looked familiar: a no-nonsense, fortyish blonde woman in a red blouse and long beige skirt, looking confident and striding purposefully down the ramp. "Boss, I know her—it's Ms. Garwood!" Tattoo blurted out. "The famous news lady on TV!"

"Oh yeah," Leslie said, eyes widening. "Jane Garwood, the national news anchor!"

"Ah, you recognize her," Roarke said, smiling. "Did you watch her newscasts?"

"Well, not really," Leslie admitted. "We usually watched David Brinkley. But if my dad wasn't around, Mom would turn to another channel and we'd watch Jane Garwood."

As Roarke nodded understanding, Tattoo queried, "Is she here for the big award show?" Leslie had heard nothing about this and tuned in to her guardian with full attention.

"Well, that's what Ms. Garwood would like the world to believe; in fact, it's already been announced that she has won the most prestigious honor," said Roarke.

"But there is something else?" Tattoo asked, looking worried.

Roarke's expression darkened. "There most certainly is, Tattoo. You see, Ms. Garwood won her award for an exposé of satanic cults called the Black Mass. Since that program was aired a year ago, three men very close to her have all died in tragic accidents. And she blames herself."

"You mean she's a jinx?" Tattoo asked, wrinkling his nose.

" 'Cursed' is the word the high priest of the cult used against her," said Roarke. His tone and expression were very grim now.

"But boss, if this has something to do with the supernatural, how can we help her?" Tattoo asked, sounding quite helpless. Leslie had to agree with him; uncertain of her new guardian's abilities, she found herself wondering exactly what they were all in for.

As Tattoo spoke, a pretty native girl had started across the clearing with a tray bearing one glass; she now stopped in front of them and presented it to Roarke, who instantly snapped into welcoming-host mode, removed the glass from the tray and addressed their new guests while the girl retreated. "My dear guests," he said, in the cadence that would become very familiar indeed to Leslie over the coming years, "I am Mr. Roarke, your host. Welcome to Fantasy Island!"

Each of the visitors beamed back in anticipation and raised their drinks in unison; Felix Birdsong took a healthy draft of his and grinned even more widely than usual. Leslie watched Roarke sip from his own glass and began to wonder exactly what kind of role she was destined to play in the fantasy-granting enterprise on this, her second weekend ever on this enchanted island.


	3. Chapter 3

§ § § - February 17, 1979

Roarke left Leslie and Tattoo behind in the main house while he went to keep a private appointment with Sister Mary Theresa, leaving Leslie free to ask Tattoo a list of questions she'd been hoarding. "You never talked about your cousin Hugo before," she said.

Tattoo, deftly sorting out bills and other official mail from the guest correspondence, paused to look at her. "I didn't? Oh well…the boss knows about him. I get letters from him now and then." He grinned. "He's quite a character."

"Sounds like a cheater to me," Leslie said without thinking, and at Tattoo's expression, she backtracked hastily. "I mean…"

He shrugged a very Gallic shrug. "No, I can see what you mean. You're very American that way," he remarked. "Kinda like the boss, except he's used to all the crazy things Hugo does, and he doesn't ask me about them anymore. But see, Hugo's wife is an heiress, so Hugo doesn't have to work. The thing is, she doesn't let him just do whatever he wants with their money, either. So he's always coming up with ways to make lots of money."

"Do they work out?" Leslie asked.

Tattoo looked a little sheepish and admitted, "Well, no…not so far. But that doesn't mean the next one won't. A lot of the time, he'll tell me about it and ask me if I want to get in on it with him. And you never know which one's the one that'll make us rich."

Dubious though she was, she gave him the benefit of the doubt. "Yeah, I guess you could look at it that way. So anyway, Hugo's wife's an heiress…but he still cheats on her?"

"They're not really in love anyway," said Tattoo dismissively. He saw her face and smiled tolerantly. "That happens a lot, Leslie. I'm sure it happens in American marriages too, but the thing is, you Americans think it's a terrible crime if the husband or wife goes out and starts another relationship. It's different in France. I don't know about the rest of Europe, but at least the people I know…well, it's no big deal to us. We marry for a comfortable life, but we want to have our fun too."

Leslie shook her head, bewildered beyond measure. "But why can't you do that with the same person? I mean, okay…maybe I'm just this little American prude or something, but I'd rather have it all in one. My best friend, a rich guy, the guy I'm in love with, the guy I'm married to—I'd want all of them to be one and the same person. How come that sounds so silly to so many people?"

Tattoo smiled at her again. "You're an idealist, Leslie. It's very hard to find all that in just one person. Not impossible, but not common. Hugo wasn't that lucky. Not that he has to worry about that right now," he postscripted absently, and Leslie giggled in spite of herself. Tattoo focused on her, and his smile became a grin. "But I can see it from your point of view, you know. And you're right, it looks pretty fishy."

They both laughed, and just then Roarke came back in. "Ah, good, you're both here. If you will, please, I'd like you both to accompany me to see Mr. Birdsong."

"Right away, boss," Tattoo said eagerly, dropping what he held, and Leslie stood up, grinning at his reaction. "Are you ready, Leslie?"

"I can't wait," she admitted, and Roarke grinned, leading the way out.

They walked single file down a path that disgorged them into a clearing beside a small lagoon fed by a little waterfall; along the shore were clustered perhaps a dozen small tables draped in red cloths, each accommodating a couple. The men wore suits and ties, the women understated but elegant dresses and high heels. Some distance farther away, they could see more business-suited men, several with cameras, and more women, these wearing bikinis in assorted colors. As they began threading their way through this latter group, Tattoo swiveled his head this way and that, appreciatively eyeing one lovely young woman after another; Leslie found herself snickering at his antics while Roarke shot him a few disapproving glances. Once Tattoo caught him at it and responded with a "What? _What?"_ look that made Leslie laugh outright. It dissuaded him for all of two seconds, though, she noticed; however, just as he was getting back into his perusal, Roarke spied their guest a few yards ahead and called, "Ah, Mr. Birdsong."

Birdsong stood alone, staring into the distance; slowly his head drifted in their direction, till he snapped back into the here-and-now. "Huh? Oh, hi, Mr. Roarke!"

"Are you enjoying yourself?" Roarke inquired, without letting on that he had noticed Birdsong's distraction.

"Oh, I sure am," Birdsong beamed. "I've never seen so many pretty girls in all my life." Leslie noticed Roarke and Tattoo exchange satisfied looks as he spoke, and wondered what that meant. "Uh…" They all peered at him, and he queried, "When's my fantasy begin?"

"Oh, but your fantasy has already begun," Roarke assured him. "All these young ladies are finalists for the starring role in the movie; they were selected from over one thousand candidates from all over the world."

Tattoo chose that moment to pipe up, "If you need an assistant, I will be very pleased to do so." His face carried an eager, lascivious look that made Leslie wonder if this was really the same compassionate man who had been so gentle and kind to her in her first few uncertain days on the island. He seemed like someone else altogether.

Roarke threw Tattoo a disparaging glance and seemed relieved to be distracted by the approach of a couple of very important-looking men. "Ah…your producer, Sid Gordon, and his assistant, Miss Jean Arden. May I introduce—"

"You don't have to tell me," Gordon said with a knowing grin. "This is my new casting director, Barney Birdsong."

"Oh…uh, Felix," Birdsong corrected him. "The name is Felix Birdsong." He grinned in friendly fashion as if to soften his pointing out of Gordon's mistake.

"Of course it is," Gordon said smoothly, without reacting an iota otherwise. Leslie found herself suspicious of him already; he was too sure of himself for her liking.

Felix grinned again, licked his lips, then turned to Gordon's companion and said apologetically, "I'm sorry, I didn't get your name?"

"Jean—Jean Arden," she reminded him.

"Jean's my exec secretary," added Gordon. "Consider her on loan to you whenever you need her." Roarke and Tattoo looked at each other again; then Roarke glanced at Leslie, took in her face and solemnly nodded once at her. It made her feel more important, and she smiled back at him with some relief.

"Thank you, Mr. Gordon," Birdsong said—and then proceeded to flatter. "Did you know I've seen every picture you ever produced?"

"Good boy!" Gordon said with approval, and once more Birdsong beamed in delight. Then Gordon's attention shifted. "Oh, here comes one of our potential backers. Mr. Felix Birdsong, allow me to present Mr. Hammerhead Harris."

"Hammerhead" Harris was a tall, rather burly-looking fellow who appeared to Leslie to be a retired wrestler, probably somewhere in his late forties. She noticed Birdsong staring apprehensively up at him. Sure enough, Tattoo confirmed her thought. "Mr. Harris was wrestling champion of the world," he said, for Birdsong's benefit.

"I got me a bundle to maybe invest in this here movin' picture," Harris remarked gruffly, peering around at them all, including Leslie. Birdsong nodded faintly.

"Mr. Birdsong is the casting director I told you about," Roarke explained, "a new breed of casting director—not Hollywood jaded, but fresh from the heartland of America."

"You folks won't mind if I borrow Felix for a few minutes?" broke in Gordon, and pulled Birdsong alongside him. "I got more of my financial angels I want him to meet." They watched while Gordon and Birdsong approached two more men, each accompanied by a bikini-clad young woman; one of them was dressed in a brown robe edged in gold and a gold turban over a Western-style business suit, while the other was decked out in more casual khaki attire. Leslie couldn't hear all of what Gordon said, but she did ascertain that the first man was a Sheik Kamil Abib, and the second was known as Big Billy Tidwell.

The sheik's voice, low and resonant, carried easily over the noise in the clearing. "If you prove to be good at this, we may be able to do some business later," he said. "I'm thinking of restocking my harem."

Birdsong's back was to them, but they still registered his exaggerated double take. "Oh really?" they heard him exclaim. Tattoo's eyes popped; Leslie rolled hers, and Roarke chuckled softly at her reaction. While Birdsong verbally fumbled, Gordon grasped his arm and towed him aside.

"Ladies and gents, your attention, please!" Gordon called out, bringing every head around to stare at him. "I'm proud to announce that Sid Gordon—that's me—pulled off what that Diogenes dude couldn't, and found me an honest man." At this Birdsong grinned, clearly overwhelmed with delight and a somewhat belated attempt at modesty. "And I now would like to present him to you my new casting director, the man who's gonna be choosing the most beautiful girl in the world, Felix Birdsong." He led off the applause, and Birdsong managed one diffident little wave before being swamped by every bikini-adorned woman in the area. Tattoo gazed enviously on; Roarke's smile faded back to something resembling concern, and Leslie glanced up at him.

He noticed. "Your opinion, Leslie?" he inquired, leaning toward her.

She flicked a shy glance toward Sid Gordon, as though afraid the producer might overhear, and admitted, "Something about that Sid Gordon makes me nervous."

Roarke studied her. "Ah. Well, we'll see if your hunch plays out," he said, and she nodded once or twice, wondering if her hunches were really worth anything. "In the meantime…I believe Mr. Birdsong is well on his way, and that's as well, for it's time to speak with Ms. Garwood."

Within twenty minutes they were at the main house and in the midst of watching film of a news report that Leslie didn't remember at all; she supposed that, the night it had aired, her late father had been in charge of the Hamilton family television and they'd been watching another network. Maybe it was as well; what she saw was chilling. A man's voice was chanting something about a "unity of unholy fellowship" while flames burned in front of scary, ugly idols; the camera panned across black-robed figures, all with masked faces, hands in the air, some holding torches, while the leader continued to incant. Tattoo, sitting by the projector, looked disturbed; Jane Garwood shivered. Roarke only frowned a little, and Leslie wondered if he remembered seeing this story the year before.

Jane Garwood stepped into the screen, wearing the same clothing she had on now, with a discernibly apprehensive look on her face. She visibly cleared this expression before turning to the camera and narrating, _"The celebrants of this Black Mass openly worship Satan, whom they consider to be the real ruler of this world."_ At this point Roarke, with a slight half-smile, turned to gauge the others' reactions; Leslie caught his eye and made a face, and his smile grew just perceptibly, as though for reassurance. Ms. Garwood didn't seem to notice; her attention was fully on the screen, her hands raised and fingers intertwined, her face anxious. The voice on the screen continued; Roarke frowned a bit and returned his attention to the report. _"…Why they would accept the power and promises of one who has already been known as the prince of liars is beyond me, and who, if all the ancient writings are to be believed, has always been most merciless to those who serve him most faithfully."_ There was a short pause while the camera panned masked faces again; then it returned to the reporter as she gave her outro. _"This is Jane Garwood, Lucifer's Temple, San Francisco, California."_

Looking grave, Tattoo stopped the projector and arose to lean against the desk beside which Leslie sat; Roarke got up and opened the shutters, allowing sunlight into the room. "Very interesting," he remarked as he did so.

"But very scary," put in Tattoo, and Leslie nodded faintly once or twice.

Jane Garwood arose too, moving far enough forward to address Roarke. "After the program was aired, the high priest was arrested and later convicted of fraud. One night he phoned me; he ranted like a maniac—said I'd slandered them and their god, and that I'd pay for it." She tried to rally for a moment, chuckling nervously. "I laughed at him, until…"

When she left the sentence hanging, Roarke glanced down at one of a number of still photos scattered across the desktop. "This was the first gentleman to suffer harm?"

"Jim. Jim Cowell." Leslie leaned forward enough to see the man in the photo, a dark-haired fellow with a broad smile, holding up some sort of ledger-style notebook. "We had just gotten engaged two weeks before the program." Roarke nodded slightly as she went on, "The police said he jumped from his hotel-room window. Then, three months later, Paul Kendall, my producer." She gestured at another photo. "He was killed." This picture showed a grim, unsmiling man holding up a notepad; on the far left side of his face, just in front of his ear, Leslie could see a peculiar scar shaped like a lurid red X. "His car went off the Big Sur Bridge; we never even found his body. I loved him too—like my own brother." She smiled wistfully. "He discovered me a couple of years ago when I was just an ambitious secretary in the newsroom."

Again Roarke nodded, sympathetic. "I see," he murmured. Wordlessly he raised a photo of a third man, a stocky, bearded fellow with a self-conscious grin on his face.

"Burt Winn. He drowned four months ago while scuba diving." Ms. Garwood hesitated. "I was willing to believe the first two were accidents, and I was beginning to like him seriously when…" Once more her words trailed off; then her face grew frustrated and upset. "Oh, what's the use of talking about it? I'm a jinx; that's what everyone's been calling me, and that's what I am!" She turned away, bowing her head.

"Please, Ms. Garwood, I can't allow you to judge yourself so harshly," said Roarke.

She whipped back around, incredulous. "How much more proof do you need?" she demanded. "Three men are dead because of me!" Despite her anguish, her voice went soft with grief. "Everyone I love or touch gets killed."

"There are many things we cannot understand," Roarke commented, coming around Leslie's chair and joining Tattoo in front of the desk. "If there is some force of evil plaguing you, then to stop it, we must draw it out."

Once more Jane Garwood whirled to stare at him, this time apprehensively, while Leslie felt alarm begin to rise within her. "But how?" Ms. Garwood asked, sitting again.

"With the proper bait," said Roarke. "There is a man here on the island who, starting this afternoon, will act as your suitor, you see…he'll take you dancing, riding, on moonlight strolls. All you have to do is pretend to fall in love with him."

"But he would be placing himself in great danger," Ms. Garwood protested.

"Your fantasy was to find out if you are a jinx," Roarke pointed out. "I know of no other way."

"Who is this man?" she asked.

Leslie saw Tattoo's eyes raise up to his boss' face before Roarke spoke calmly. "I am." That brought out a horrified look on Tattoo, and Leslie felt her mouth drop open in disbelief. What on earth did her guardian think he was doing?

Ms. Garwood stood up and shook her head. "Oh no, Mr. Roarke. I can't allow you to do that," she said, earning Leslie's gratitude and admiration on the spot.

"_Allow_ me?" echoed Roarke, sounding amused, of all things. "Ms. Garwood, this is Fantasy Island, my island, and here I do what I think is best." She began to object, but he cut her off. "If you are ever to be rid of this…'curse', we must do this. Trust me. We give evil its greatest power through our belief in it."

They all stared at him, but his attention was solely on Ms. Garwood, who finally gave in. "All right," she capitulated through a small sigh.

"Now," Roarke said, accompanying her toward the door, "I suggest you go to your bungalow and unpack. We'll stop and see the preparations for the award ceremonies; then I think it might be a nice day for a ride."

She stared up at him, with an expression Leslie couldn't read from across the room, then reached out and shook his hand. "Thank you," she murmured.

"Not at all," said Roarke warmly, and watched her leave, closing the door after her. He had just reached the top of the steps into the study when Tattoo spoke up.

"Boss, I'm scared. You're setting yourself up to get killed," he said anxiously.

Leslie stared on, confused, wondering whom and what to side with, as Roarke stepped into the room, an amused look on his handsome features. "Oh, Tattoo, don't tell me you believe in the curse too!" He glanced at his speechless ward. "And what of you, Leslie?" She could only shrug, and he half-smiled.

"I try not to," Tattoo insisted, "but what if something happens to you? What will I do without you?"

Roarke's face softened and he smiled; Leslie stared in wonder at Tattoo, beginning to realize that their friendship, and perhaps their dependence on each other, went much deeper than she had first surmised. They still seemed like close brothers to her, except perhaps with a large enough age difference that it was more as though Roarke had raised Tattoo in the absence of their parents. Maybe Tattoo saw Roarke as some kind of father figure, she thought, staring on as Roarke spoke gently. "I appreciate the concern, my friend. I'll do my best to avoid undue danger."

Tattoo looked very doubtful indeed, and she saw his gaze drop to the film canister on the desk, labeled "THE BLACK MASS" around a pentagram. Roarke took his seat behind the desk, just before the Frenchman cleared his throat. "I hope you do, boss. Because after all, you've got Leslie to think about now. If something happens to you, she won't have anybody left at all. And you know her mother trusted you with her."

Roarke looked up sharply, but this time Tattoo wouldn't back down; and before anyone could riposte, Tattoo nodded firmly once and spun around, leaving the study. Leslie stared after him; Roarke slowly settled back in his chair.

When she didn't say anything, he peered curiously at her. "Well, Leslie?"

Her gaze shot to his, but she still wasn't sure what to say. All she could do was shrug again, helplessly. "I don't know," she finally mumbled.

"What don't you know?" he prompted with an encouraging smile.

Her mouth hung open as she tried to decide what to say; he seemed to realize she was trying to process her thoughts, and suggested, "Simply say what you're thinking, Leslie."

She could think of two or three questions that battled for prominence, but the one that finally came out surprised her as much as him. "Do you think Tattoo really believes in all that supernatural stuff?"

"Perhaps," Roarke said evasively, which she found mildly frustrating. "Do you?"

"Do I believe in it?" she clarified, and he nodded. "Well…I don't really know. It's one of those…those funny things. I mean, this is Fantasy Island…" She stopped.

"Go ahead," Roarke urged, looking extremely interested.

He really seemed to want to know, so she gave in and let the words tumble out. "The thing is…before I ever came here…my grandmother, my _mormor_, knew all about this place. She told me about it. When I was seven she moved into our house, and I gave up my room for her so she could live with us. I was helping her settle in and I found an old Fantasy Island travel brochure." Roarke's brows popped up with even more interest, and she nodded. "Yeah, it was turning yellow, it was so old. Maybe it was the one Mom got when she took her trip here right before I was born."

"Perhaps it was," Roarke agreed with a smile.

She smiled back, a little more at ease. "Anyway, I asked her what it was, and she said this is an enchanted island, that everything here is magic. So you have that. And then there was that stupid curse on my family that we finally broke. You didn't deny that was the real thing. I mean, we were seeing a ghost and everything." Roarke nodded, listening attentively. "So there had to be something supernatural in that, right? But you're sitting here telling us that it's silly to believe in this stuff. You just said that we give evil its power because we believe in it. If it really exists, _shouldn't_ we believe in it?"

Roarke smiled again and drew in a breath. "Evil comes in more than one guise, my dear Leslie," he said. "Not all evil has its roots in the supernatural. And there is something about this particular case that tells me there's nothing supernatural about it. Oh yes, it _seems_ to be so—but that's merely its façade, designed to frighten away superstitious people who fully and wholly believe in such things. You will find that, sooner or later, most evil has its roots in the actions of completely tangible, corporeal human beings." He raised a hand when she started to protest. "Ultimately, at the instigation of the curse on your family, Tituba was a human being, was she not?"

"But she invoked something supernatural," Leslie pointed out.

"How so?" he asked.

"She said she was going to become Satan's assistant or something."

"Ah, yes," he recalled, nodding once. "Don't you think it's possible that this was merely what she believed? After all, you must understand, she lived in an age of pure superstition, in which the rational was all but unknown, and mysterious, unseen forces were the very driver of everyday life, the basis of all one did and knew. Now, nearly three centuries later, we know better, don't we?"

"But she was still a ghost," Leslie said stubbornly.

Roarke laughed. "Indeed…and as you said, this is Fantasy Island. Suffice it for me to tell you, since you are to be intimately involved in my business for the next half-dozen or so years, that here, the supernatural, the intangible, the mythological, freely intertwine with the real, the tangible, the proven."

"But is that supernatural stuff real, or just…I don't know, special effects for the sake of granting fantasies?" Leslie asked, thoroughly confused. "I ask because, well, I don't really believe in ghosts and stuff like that. I mean, it's fun to pretend and everything, but when you get down to real life, like my dad used to say, you have to remember what's all claptrap and what's right in front of your face." She pulled a face that got a laugh from him. "I hate to quote him, you know, but I guess sometimes he said something halfway intelligent."

"The whole key is that, as we have both said, this is Fantasy Island. Perhaps that should be enough to tell you."

"So I guess what that means is, I ought to trust you and hope you know what you're doing, so that you don't get killed—not by some imaginary spirit, but by some nasty, real, live, tangible human being," Leslie said, crossing her arms over her chest.

Again he laughed. "If I can have your trust, that's all I ask." He squeezed her shoulder and handed her a stack of mail. "If you'll help me wade through some paperwork, I'll be very grateful. I think it self-replicated in our previous absence." She giggled and set to sorting out envelopes, realizing belatedly that he had never really answered her final question, but deciding it might be one of those things she didn't really _want_ answered.

Tattoo hadn't returned by the time Roarke was ready to check on the venue for the award ceremony and meet Ms. Garwood, so he brought Leslie along with him; at not yet fourteen, she was in his opinion not quite old enough to be alone too long, and certainly not qualified to fill in for him even in a brief absence. Along the way he made a few inquiries and found that Tattoo had gone to supervise the setup for the weekly luau in its usual clearing; so he suggested Leslie go on ahead, and smiled when she hesitated. "Remember our little talk," he reminded her gently.

She nodded. "Okay," she murmured, unwilling to argue any further; she wasn't going to horn in on her guardian's date, even if it was fake. Then she remembered something. "Um, where's the luau clearing?"

Roarke grinned and gestured toward the Ring Road along which they'd been walking. "Just continue down that way for about fifteen minutes, and then keep watch along your left side. You'll likely hear the activity long before you see it, so that will help you orient yourself. I'll see you and Tattoo later."

She nodded and struck off on her own, casting a couple of backward glances in spite of herself; the second time, Roarke was out of sight, so she kept trudging along, hoping his directions were accurate. She'd already gotten lost enough wandering paths on this island, and this was the first time since then that she'd gone any substantial distance alone.

Just then she heard someone calling out and turned around to see a tall, slender girl with large brown eyes and light-brown hair piled up in a messy bun on her head approaching her at a run. "Hey, 'scuse me…sorry," she was calling.

Leslie stopped, deeply uncertain. "Um…are you talking to me?"

"Yeah." The brunette jogged to a halt beside her and began speaking in a rushed New York cadence. "Look, I got an appointment with a casting director and I'm gonna be late if I don't get there quick, but I can't find his office. D'y'know where it is?"

As it happened, Leslie had no idea whatsoever, but she wasn't sure whether to fake it or admit it. Stalling, she asked, "You mean Felix Birdsong?"

"Yeah, that's the guy. Guess everybody on the island knows about the movie they're castin' here this weekend, huh?" The brunette grinned. "Anyway, I'm one'a the finalists, and I really, really want this. It could be the start of a fabulous new career!"

"Well, good luck," Leslie said politely.

"Thanks. Now if I can just find that office…" Before she could ask Leslie again, they both heard a couple of other voices hailing them, and looked around to see a couple more very pretty young women hurrying in their direction.

"Thank you for waiting," exclaimed one of them in a very proper British accent that instantly fascinated Leslie. "I wouldn't trouble you, but unfortunately we're unable to find Felix Birdsong's office, and it would be dreadfully unprofessional to miss our appointments."

"Yeah, exactly," said the other woman, a statuesque ice-blonde with luminous blue eyes and a dazzling set of snowy teeth. Leslie half expected them to glint in the sunlight the way they did in cartoons. "My whole career could be riding on this, and I just can't miss this chance, not after coming so far and being a finalist!"

"Where're you from?" Leslie asked in spite of herself.

"St. Cloud, Minnesota," said the blonde, nearly blinding Leslie with her smile.

"And I hail from Coventry, England," added the Brit, whose honey-blonde hair had been arranged into a sleek, almost straight style with gentle curves at the ends. She gave Leslie a curious look. "You must live here on the island."

"Yeah, I do," she said, debating as to whether she should confess that in fact her residence period consisted of all of fifteen days.

Before she could decide, the New Yorker clapped her hands once with delight. "Then that's poifect…I mean perfect!" she exclaimed. The Minnesotan giggled and the Brit gave her an odd look; the New Yorker blushed. "Sometimes I forget and the worst of my accent comes out," she admitted good-naturedly.

"That's okay, I like the sound of it. New York City, right?" The brunette nodded and the Minnesotan beamed again. "I've always thought it must be so sophisticated growing up there! What's it like? I've never been." The next thing Leslie knew, the two were off and running, just about at the same moment yet another pretty young lady dashed up to them, looking panicky.

"I am lost," she cried in an unmistakably Spanish lilt. "Please help me!" She seemed to realize the other women were contenders for her hoped-for throne, and focused on Leslie as her sole source of help. "I am nearly late to see _Señor_ Birdsong, but where is he?"

About to claim she didn't know, Leslie was interrupted by the Brit. "That's just what we were asking. This young lady lives here on the island and should be able to tell us where Mr. Birdsong's office is located." She smiled broadly at Leslie.

On the fine edge of panic, Leslie wished desperately that she'd managed to locate Tattoo before she got into this fast-increasing mess. Now all these women were counting on her, and in the absence of her guardian or his assistant, it was all up to her. She had to come through! Drawing in a deep breath, she began, "Well, I know Mr. Roarke gave Mr. Birdsong an office somewhere around here. There's…um…there's a little town down the road that way a little bit." She gestured vaguely in the direction she had been walking, remembering the visit she, Roarke and Tattoo had paid to Amberville, the only real town on the island. She was sure she had seen a sort of New-England-style town square almost totally enclosed by rows of storefronts. "I bet he set Mr. Birdsong up over there."

"Oh, lovely! Lead the way, then, will you, please?" the Brit requested in a merry voice, and the next thing Leslie knew, she was at the head of a small parade marching along the side of the road, with four of its members chatting cheerfully and its leader feeling as if she would rather have been dangling from a rope snare in a tree. She had never felt so inadequate in her life, and all she could do was repeat over and over to herself, _Please let me not mess this up…please let me be right!_

At their pace it took them most of twenty minutes to get into town, by which point the New Yorker was frantic. "I'm gonna be late in exactly five minutes!" she cried, making Leslie blanch with horror. "Quick, tell me, where's Mr. Birdsong's office?"

A native girl just passing happened to overhear and smiled. "Just that way, miss," she offered. "It's in that storefront there on the corner. Just go right in."

All four of Leslie's charges thanked the native girl and raced away across the square, while Leslie stared after them and sagged visibly with relief. The native girl grinned. "Are you all right?" she asked.

"I am now, thanks to you," Leslie said with abject relief. "They all got lost looking for Mr. Birdsong's office and I just couldn't tell them I didn't know where it was…I mean, I think they must've thought I knew my way around since I live here now and all…"

"Oh," said the native girl, her features softening, "you must be Mr. Roarke's new ward. Don't worry, Miss Leslie, you'll learn your way around in no time at all." With that, she smiled at Leslie and hurried away.

Leslie blew out a loud breath and looked around the square, then remembered where she was supposed to be and groaned quietly. "Great," she mumbled. "Now I gotta look for the luau clearing all over again." Throwing her hands into the air, she began trudging back the way she had come, hoping she wouldn't encounter any more lost souls.

Almost half an hour later, after listening vainly for the noise Roarke had told her she would hear, then discerning voices and following them as best she could—which was very badly indeed—down the first path she came to, she at last stumbled out on what had to be her destination, after all this time. There were maybe a dozen of Roarke's employees working in the clearing, and they all paused to look curiously at her when she burst out of the trees. Her face grew hot at being the sudden center of attention, and she offered a sorry effort at a smile before searching the clearing. "Is Tattoo here?"

"Oh, wait a minute," one of the young men said, "that's Mr. Roarke's ward." He smiled at the flustered girl. "I'm sorry, Miss Leslie, but Mr. Tattoo's gone on another errand."

_Oh, terrific,_ Leslie thought, barely restraining a groan. "Could you tell me where?"

"Sure. Just go on down to the old opera house. There's supposed to be some sort of party there tonight and he was going to help get it set up."

Leslie stared blankly at the man. "What?" She had never heard of the old opera house; it had not been on the list of places Roarke had taken her to.

Some of the native girls exchanged glances and tittered, and Leslie blushed again, feeling like the dumbest thing on two feet. The young man, though, seemed to take pity on her. "Just go back out to the main road and catch the island shuttle bus," he advised. "They announce all the stops. When the driver says 'the old opera house', get off there. You should be able to find Mr. Tattoo there."

For a change, that sounded easy. "Oh good, thanks," Leslie said, maybe too eagerly, because it got her another round of poorly hidden giggles. Blushing more fiercely than ever, she plunged back into the trees, hoping she could at least find the road again without going down some wrong path and ending up deep in the jungle.

This time she was a little luckier; she gained the road with little trouble, and wonder of wonders, there was a bus heading right for her. She waved both arms and the vehicle pulled over for her. "Thanks," she said breathlessly, boarding.

"Have a seat anywhere," said the driver carelessly. It was a bored native boy who appeared to still be in high school. Without waiting for any response from her, he put the bus into gear and sent it forward, so that she had to grab the back of the nearest seat and lurch down the aisle to the first empty one.

Leslie listened very carefully as the driver yelled out each stop: "Main house!" "Hotel!" "Island hospital!" "Stables!" After this last, there was a long pause while the bus roared on down the road and most of the passengers dozed; Leslie had begun to really worry when the driver finally slowed again and barked out, "Enclave marina!" She slumped back in her seat; how far away _was_ this alleged opera house they'd sent her to?

The bus ate another five miles or so, then pulled over with the call of, "Old opera house!" Deeply relieved, Leslie got up and waited till the bus had stopped, then hastily disembarked and looked around her while the bus pulled back onto the road and vanished around a bend. The trees here looked different from the usual tropical jungle; they framed a large one-story building with what must be a very high ceiling. To the right of the building, the trees stood in uniform rows and were all of a height; she realized it must be an orchard of some sort, and even as the thought skittered through her head, she caught a quick whiff of oranges. Suddenly a juicy orange sounded like the most delectable thing on earth; she was hungry and had no idea what time it was, since she didn't have a watch. Unfortunately, when she approached the trees, she discovered that there wasn't a single fruit on any of them. Disappointed, she made her way around to the front of the building and let herself in, peering quizzically around her. It was quiet, and apprehension churned her gut. Had she been sent on another wild-goose chase?

She was standing in a small foyer next to what looked like a ticket window, with a door beside that. On the other side of the window were closet rods with empty hangers dangling from them, and she realized it must be a coat check. No one was here, so she went on through the double glass doors, covered with velvet curtains, into a very large and almost empty room. Tables were set up all the way around the perimeter; there was a platform toward the front end of the room, upon which sat several instruments—a drum set, a couple of guitars, and an electric keyboard unit. The space in the middle was cleared as if for dancing; near the band platform sat several rows of folding chairs waiting for an audience.

"Tattoo?" Leslie called out, her voice quivering a little with uncertainty.

There was a muffled shriek from the back of the room and a figure shot into view, startling Leslie enough to make her gasp and send her heart galloping. "My goodness, you scared me to death!" a high-pitched female voice scolded her. "I thought I was alone."

"But…but…" Leslie floundered helplessly in protest. "I mean, they said I'd find Tattoo here. Where is he?"

"Oh," said the voice, and its owner moved forward enough that Leslie could see it was yet another native girl. "Mr. Tattoo just left. Said he's got a couple of things he needs to see to at the ferry dock."

Leslie experienced a sinking feeling that should have been enough to swallow an oil tanker. "Ferry dock?" she echoed in despair. It was yet another unknown place to her.

The native girl peered at her hard for a moment before her face cleared. "Oh, I know, you're Mr. Roarke's new ward, aren't you? Okay, listen—go back out and catch the next shuttle bus, and stay on it till the ferry-dock stop. You can't miss the administration building, there's a sign over the door."

"Okay," Leslie murmured. "Thanks." Now weary, she left the building and plodded to the bus stop where she'd gotten off mere minutes ago. _Crud, Tattoo, where the heck are you? And what happens if you're not at the ferry dock?_ She didn't want to think about it; she was hot, tired, hungry and thirsty, and feeling overwhelmed and utterly out of her element. It crossed her mind to suppose that one day she'd laugh at this experience, but of course, that all depended on whether it ever came to an end.

She noticed a small square sign mounted on the post underneath the round one with the bus silhouette on top, and leaned in closer to look at it. It was a bus-stop schedule—and according to it, the next bus wasn't due for almost half an hour. With a loud groan, Leslie sank onto the dirt and hid her face in her hands.


	4. Chapter 4

§ § § - February 17, 1979

At three-thirty Tattoo came into Roarke's study, his suit jacket unbuttoned and his thick black hair a bit windblown. Roarke smiled. "Ah, hello, my friend," he said.

Tattoo stopped short and then beamed, looking relieved. "Oh good, the Black Mass didn't get you yet."

Roarke gave him a remonstrating look. "Now Tattoo, you know better." He caught himself when he realized his assistant was unaccompanied. "Where's Leslie?"

"I don't know, I thought she was with you," said Tattoo blankly, removing the jacket and laying it on one of the club chairs. "Isn't she?"

"I sent her to the luau clearing so that she could perhaps assist you with some of your duties during the day," said Roarke. He frowned. "Didn't she find you?"

"I haven't seen Leslie since I left here this morning," Tattoo informed him.

They stared at each other for several seconds; then Roarke frowned deeply and arose. "I think we'd better go look for her. I sent her to you when I went to meet Ms. Garwood to go horseback riding, and that's the last I saw of her. When she didn't come home for lunch, I assumed you and she had eaten at some other establishment."

"I ate at the hotel, and she wasn't with me at all," Tattoo said. "I had a lot of places I had to go anyway." He looked stricken. "Boss, she's still brand-new—there's every chance in the world she's gotten lost somewhere and can't figure out where she is. Maybe the Black Mass got her!"

Roarke's dirty look was full of exasperation. "That will do, Tattoo. Come quickly."

They got into a rover parked out front and, after a moment's deliberation, decided the best thing to do was to take the northern branch of the Ring Road and drive along it. But it took them the better part of half an hour before they spied a forlorn figure in a pale-blue sundress plodding wearily along the side of the road, head down. Roarke pulled up alongside and called, "Leslie, what on earth happened to you?"

She yanked bolt upright, her face shocked and then immensely relieved, as if she had been so lost in misery she had never heard them coming. "Oh wow, am I ever glad to see the two of you!" she cried, racing across the road and climbing into the car.

Roarke made a three-point turn to get them going back the other way. "Why on earth are you all the way out here, walking along the road like that? Do you know you're nearly halfway across the island from home?"

"Is that all? I thought I wasn't getting anywhere at all," she groaned. "Gosh, Tattoo, you sure were on the run. I couldn't find you to save my life."

Roarke and Tattoo looked at each other. "Leslie, perhaps you'd better tell me the full story, beginning from the point when I sent you to the luau clearing," Roarke said.

She sighed and launched into her tale; the more she told, the more amazed both men were. "I wasn't sure if I should wait an entire half-hour for the bus or not, but then that native girl came out of the opera house and saw me there, and she said she'd call her boyfriend who had a motorcycle. So she went in and called, and in about ten minutes he showed up on this huge black monster. We all fit on it though, so he took me over to the ferry dock. I was gonna ask him to wait, but he just waved at me and roared off. And of course, Tattoo wasn't at the ferry dock anymore by then. So all I could do was start walking. And, well, that's where you found me."

"_Sacre bleu,"_ muttered Tattoo in astonishment.

"Why didn't you simply call me at the house?" Roarke wanted to know.

Leslie stared at him in the rearview mirror, with the first tendrils of apprehension creeping into her expression. "I thought you weren't at home," she said in a small voice. "I mean, you were out with Ms. Garwood and I…um…I thought you'd be gone the rest of the day. And besides, I…" She blushed vividly, hung her head and mumbled something.

"What was that?" Roarke probed.

Crimson with mortification, she met his gaze for a bare tenth of a second in the mirror before admitting in a slightly louder voice, "I don't know the phone number at the main house."

"You could certainly have asked anyone, at any time, to place a phone call for you," Roarke admonished. "Tattoo and I each thought you were with the other, and when we discovered you weren't, we were very worried indeed."

"I'm sorry," Leslie said, barely audible, her head hanging again. She remained silent all the way back home, despite Tattoo's attempts to coax her out of her doldrums. Roarke had a feeling he had pushed a little too hard somehow, but he wasn't sure how, and at any rate didn't have time to investigate at the moment. There was too much to do. So he suggested Tattoo take Leslie to the evening's luau where they could have supper; Tattoo agreed, suggesting out of Leslie's earshot that it might help cheer her up. Roarke smiled, hoping this would work, and commended his assistant for the idea.

Tattoo and Leslie both changed clothes—Tattoo replacing his jacket, vest, shirt and bowtie with a colorful Hawaiian shirt, and Leslie donning a pair of shorts and a green-and-white-striped top—and set off for the clearing that had given Leslie so much trouble that afternoon. "You'll like the luau," Tattoo promised her. "We have it every Saturday night. It's a little different every week, but there's always some kind of entertainment, and they always have food. Lots of tropical fruit and Hawaiian dishes. You'll feel better after you've eaten, anyway." He grinned at her and urged her along.

"Okay," Leslie agreed. She did have to admit that she was ravenous by now, having missed lunch altogether, and that was the only thing that gave her any enthusiasm at all for this new venture. Tattoo led her through the buffet set along one side of the clearing, and she piled her plate high with everything that looked even a little appealing to her. Tattoo stared at her in astonishment as they retreated to a spot he had staked out at the table farthest away from the action, which was a small band singing a drifting Hawaiian tune while a couple of hula girls performed in front and another circled the tables, dropping leis around the necks of random guests as she went.

"Are you really gonna eat all that?" he asked, gaping at Leslie's plate.

She glanced at it, then at him, then shrugged sheepishly. "I'm hungry. I never did get to eat lunch," she pointed out.

He shook his head teasingly. "Boy, if Mana'olana could see you now," he said, and for the first time since he and Roarke had found her, she laughed. Already the grandmotherly cook had gained a reputation among the three of them for scolding Leslie about her less-than-robust eating habits.

Chuckling, Tattoo led her back to their spot and they settled down to eat; she had made quite an inroad on her plate when the tune came to an end and the spectators began applauding. Tattoo hastily swallowed a bite and arose. "Be right back," he said to Leslie, and hurried out to stand in front of the band. "Attention," he called. "Attention! Please, can I have your attention?" The audience quieted and everyone watched him expectantly. "You have been watching our beautiful ladies dance for you. And now comes the highlight of our show, when they will teach the Fantasy Island dance to the three lucky men who received the flower leis during the last dance." The only lei-wearing man Leslie could see was a dark-haired man who looked as though he should have been rather stocky but was actually fairly lean, whose face wore a look of utter consternation; nearby sat Mary Hoyt, the nun who was questioning her vocation. She was giggling in delight. The audience laughed too, and clapped as Tattoo called for applause and the dancers coaxed the reluctant men up front. Leslie found herself grinning and looking forward to the spectacle.

"Now, gentlemen," Tattoo said, "line up, please, and do as the girls do. Music, please." The band started up a new song, and Leslie watched as Tattoo exchanged smiles with the lead singer and unabashedly joined right in the hula dancing. The song was one Leslie thought she had heard before, something about going to a _hukilau_, whatever that was; she found herself laughing at the men's antics as they clumsily tried to follow along with the fluid motions of the hula girls. The man who was with Mary Hoyt hammed it up a bit, making her laugh some more; she would have to remember to ask either Roarke or Tattoo what his name was. Mary was laughing as well, and Leslie found herself hoping the pretty young woman would fall enough in love with that man to have a full life.

She was able to finish eating at leisure, enough to fill her up and make her feel rather sleepy, as though she'd just finished a Thanksgiving dinner. "You should be full after all that," Tattoo remarked teasingly, urging her up. "It's going on eight—I think we better get you back home. You don't have any homework, do you?"

She shook her head, rising with a small groan and holding her stomach. "I finished it yesterday. Ugh…I think maybe I ate too much."

"Looks like it to me too. Well, come on, once you get home, there'll probably be some more mail you can sort out," Tattoo said. He detoured long enough to commend the band on their performance and invite them to help themselves to the buffet; then he led Leslie along the shortest path back to the main house.

Roarke was out when they got there, so they settled in for a quiet interval, with Leslie reading a library book in the absence of any new mail, and Tattoo studying what looked like some kind of small ledger. But Leslie's mind began to wander, and eventually she looked up from her book. "Tattoo? You know that song those guys were hula-ing to?"

"What about it?" he asked, giving her his full attention.

"Well, I was wondering…it's been running through my head like songs do, you know what I mean?" He grinned and nodded. "Anyway, it made me start wondering. What's the difference between a _hukilau_ and a luau?"

Tattoo laughed. "Most people think they're the same thing. I think you're the first one who ever asked if there was a difference." He began to describe a _hukilau_ to her, but before he had gotten very far, a guest dropped in and waxed so enthusiastic about the evening luau that they both laughed about it when he was gone and forgot her question altogether. Soon the study quieted again, with only the chime of the grandfather clock every quarter hour to break the silence.

Finally Roarke came in, at somewhat past nine o'clock; this was Leslie's usual bedtime, but he and Tattoo tended to be a bit more lenient on weekends. "Ah, good evening, Tattoo," Roarke greeted, stepping into the foyer. "Hello, Leslie."

"Good evening, boss," said Tattoo, and Leslie offered her own shy greeting.

Roarke smiled at her and rounded her chair to settle into his own. "Still up?"

"Yes, I didn't feel much like sleeping," Tattoo admitted.

"I'm too full to sleep yet," Leslie confessed, and Roarke looked curiously at her, which prompted the story of the mountain of food she had consumed at the luau. Roarke laughed. "So you enjoyed the luau then, did you?"

"Sure," she said. "The food's really good—no wonder I overate."

With another chuckle, Roarke pulled his date book closer to him. "I see."

"Anyway, I thought I better let it digest awhile," she added, "and Tattoo said he'd stay here with me till I was ready to go up to my room."

Roarke smiled again at this, then flicked a glance at Tattoo as he reached for an elegant quill pen to make some notations in the date book. "Oh?"

Tattoo nodded. "Besides, I wanted to make sure you got home okay."

Roarke paused and stared at his assistant for a moment, his features softening into a smile. "Your concern is deeply appreciated." He reached for a drawer and pulled it open—only to reveal the raised, hissing head and telltale collar of a huge cobra coiled therein.

Leslie shrieked; Roarke reared back and Tattoo leaped into action, seizing a poker from a stand stocked with old fireplace tools and flinging the snake from the drawer, then beating it several times over with all his strength till the deadly reptile stilled. Roarke got to his feet and assessed the situation with a quick, "That's enough, my friend." Leslie, her whole body quaking, had to use the desktop to push herself to her feet; some morbid human failing in her seemed to be propelling her to look at the mess. Tattoo threw the poker aside and stared solemnly up at his boss.

"A cobra," Roarke murmured, frowning.

"One of the deadliest snakes in the world," confirmed Tattoo.

Leslie spied a little silver trinket in the drawer at that point. "What's that thing?"

Roarke followed the shaking finger she pointed and picked it up as Tattoo exclaimed low, "Boss…it's the Black Mass symbol." It was a strange little ornament, looking like a kneeling goat flanked with large wings, sprouting long curved horns from its head; its eyes were two small emeralds. He handed it to Tattoo, who stared at it and then turned to look up at Roarke again. "Boss, it was meant to kill you!"

Leslie thumped back into her seat, just in time to see a black hooded figure sweep past the tall shuttered windows. She gasped aloud, but Roarke had caught sight of it too, and he instantly rushed out of the study in pursuit, leaving Tattoo holding the winged-goat charm and Leslie half in and half out of her chair, overfilled stomach forgotten.

"What was that all about?" asked Tattoo.

Leslie realized he'd missed the figure slink past the windows. "We saw somebody out there," she said. Before he could say anything, she scrambled out of the room and followed Roarke onto the veranda, where she saw him now standing on the front walk, looking around without spotting anything untoward.

She approached the top of the steps. "Did you see him?"

"Stay back, Leslie," Roarke ordered without glancing back, jogging toward the side yard near where the lane curved away toward the Ring Road. She watched him stop in the lane and look around for a moment, before his white suit was suddenly illuminated from one side and they both heard an engine roar to life and wheels screech into motion.

"Look out!" Leslie screamed, her voice nearly lost in the noise.

Roarke dived out of the way of the speeding vehicle; as it squealed past them and away up the lane, he leaped back to his feet and ran for a jeep parked nearby. Leslie was about to leap the steps to join him, but he saw her move. "I told you to stay back!" he barked at her before throwing himself into the jeep and peeling out after the vanished mystery car. Leslie stopped where she was and watched the jeep's taillights disappear around the curve, then blew out a breath and fled back into the house to inform Tattoo.

Tattoo had dropped the Black Mass symbol onto the desk and listened in horror to what she had to say. "Which way did they leave?"

"Down the southern side of the lane," said Leslie. "I didn't really see the thing that almost hit Mr. Roarke, but I'm pretty sure it looked like a pickup truck."

"Okay, come on," said Tattoo, snapping into action. "We're going after him—he might need some kind of backup." He made a hurried phone call, then urged Leslie outside with him, pulling the outer door closed behind them. Within minutes a rover arrived and they both jumped in; Tattoo told the native driver to stick to unpaved dirt roads as much as possible, which he did once they spied a little-used dirt lane veering off into the jungle, bearing telltale tire tracks.

It was so dark that they could see nothing beyond the scope of the headlights, and the car's engine overrode any other sounds. It took them almost ten minutes, with a lot of slowing for ruts and pits in the road, before they pulled up into a somewhat wider patch in the lane and the headlights outlined a pickup truck and Roarke's jeep. In the distance, at the very edge of the lights' reach, they could see a figure in white; it turned sharply as their car pulled to a stop a safe distance from the other vehicles.

Since the two native men Tattoo had recruited both followed the Frenchman when he jumped out and ran for Roarke, Leslie felt she had no choice but to follow; who knew what was out here and what might get her? Tattoo reached him first, and she was still jogging over to catch up when she heard him ask, "Boss, are you all right?" At Roarke's nod, he added, "Do you know who it was?"

Roarke shook his head and smiled at Leslie, who had finally caught up. "Whoever it was seems to know the island as well as we do," he said slowly.

"Then that's better than I do," Leslie injected, making a face.

Roarke smiled at her. "You'll learn. Well, there's nothing more to be learned here; we had better return. It's late and you, my child, need to get your sleep."

§ § § - February 18, 1979

Though she hadn't expected to, after the tension of the previous evening, Leslie slept well, and awoke refreshed and ready to help Roarke with whatever he assigned to her. "You should find this fairly simple," he mused over a light breakfast. "You might wish to help Tattoo at the breakfast buffet—be sure there is enough for everyone and find out what needs to be replenished from the hotel."

Mana'olana, loading some unused dishes and utensils onto a rolling cart, shook her head at Leslie. "Young lady, you really should have some fruit with that cereal."

"Oatmeal's enough for me. That's all I eat in the morning. I've always been like that," Leslie protested, startled.

Tattoo winked surreptitiously at her and turned to the cook. "Let her be, okay? She ate a whole pile of food last night at the luau, and her stomach's probably still trying to work that off. You should've seen all the stuff she had on her plate."

Mana'olana gave Leslie a disbelieving look, then sniffed. "Hmph…that's what happens when you don't eat any lunch." So saying, she left with the cart.

"Brother," Leslie grumbled, scooping up some more of her oatmeal. "There's just no pleasing her, I guess."

Tattoo and Roarke laughed, and their conversation moved on to a few other duties Roarke wanted Leslie to help Tattoo with before the meal ended and they dispersed for the morning. Leslie followed Tattoo to the clearing where the breakfast buffet was being held; in fact, it was the clearing where the luau had taken place the previous evening. "You sure get a lot of use out of this place," she remarked.

"It's very handy for all kinds of events," Tattoo agreed. "Come on." Leslie obediently trailed him along the buffet table, which seemed well-stocked; then, as a young native man wheeled in a covered cart bearing more food, Tattoo signaled at him and double-checked what was on it.

"This is for Mr. Birdsong and Miss Arden," the young waiter informed him, gesturing at the pair, who were seated at a nearby table shaded with a yellow umbrella, covered in a brilliant-red cloth and surrounded by four cheerful red-and-yellow chairs. "It's a gift from some other guests." He indicated three tables some little distance away; Tattoo glanced that way, swept his gaze across the tables' occupants, and nodded.

"Good. I wanted to check with Mr. Birdsong anyway," said Tattoo. "Something else for you to learn, Leslie." He winked at her again, then gestured for both Leslie and the waiter to follow, and approached the table.

As they got nearer, Leslie heard Jean Arden remark, "That's how they all start out, eager and naïve." She sounded jaded and resigned.

"What's wrong with that?" asked Birdsong blankly, then turned to Tattoo as he, Leslie and the waiter with the cart paused beside their table.

"Nothing," said Jean, "but it never lasts." She noticed the newcomers then and looked up, flashing a quick, preoccupied smile.

"Morning," Birdsong said to Tattoo, including Leslie with a smiling glance.

"Miss Arden, Mr. Birdsong," said Tattoo in greeting.

"Good morning, Tattoo," Jean said and then let her smile warm for the uncertain Leslie. "Hi there."

"Hi," Leslie murmured shyly. Tattoo cast her a look over his shoulder, making her wonder what she was doing wrong now, before retreating into host mode again and gesturing at the waiter's cart.

Birdsong gaped and started to chuckle in amazement. "What's this, champagne for breakfast? We didn't order any champagne."

"Compliments of the gentlemen over there," said Tattoo, and pointed out the tables the waiter had earlier indicated.

They all looked around; Leslie recognized the burly ex-wrestler from the day before, Hammerhead Harris, and the flashily clad sheik, as well as the other guy whose name she'd barely heard and now couldn't quite remember…Billy something, she thought. They all nodded at Birdsong in what looked like a rather meaningful way; each of them was seated with one of the twenty finalists for the starring role in the movie Birdsong was casting.

"Uh-huh," Jean said disgustedly through a small sigh. "It begins with champagne and ends with a brown paper bag full of money."

Birdsong took instant offense. "Are you implying that I'd sell out?" Jean nodded firmly, and he scowled, shifting in his chair. "Don't be ridiculous!"

"Well, fact: Hammerhead Harris is sponsoring Miss Little Rock. Fact: Big Billy Tidwell is sponsoring Miss Brooklyn; and fact: Sheik Abib over there is sponsoring Miss Can-Can, Gigi." She speared Birdsong with a look. "Now does that tell you anything?"

Birdsong shifted again, peering uneasily back and forth between Jean and Tattoo; she looked as if she had been expecting these developments, while Tattoo just smiled blandly and Leslie looked on in amazement. She recognized the woman with Billy Tidwell as the cheery New York native who had asked her for directions to the casting office, and shook her head to herself. Did that girl know what she was involved in?

"Well," Birdsong announced suddenly, "I won't be bought." He got up from his chair and left without another word; Jean stared after him, looking genuinely astounded, and Leslie had to grin. Tattoo caught sight of her expression and winked.

"Well, if you'd excuse us," he said, and motioned the waiter away with the cart. But Leslie lingered, watching Birdsong stride away and disappear into the trees. Jean Arden was still staring after him, as if stricken with some kind of revelation.

"Leslie, come on!" called Tattoo, and she jumped and scuttled off to join him. He eyed her with interest. "What were you doing?"

She threw a glance behind her at Jean, whose face presented a study in determination as she gathered her things together and hurriedly left the table. "I think Miss Arden's changing her mind about Mr. Birdsong," she mused.

"You do?" inquired Tattoo in a tell-me-more tone.

"Well, you saw the way she thought Mr. Birdsong would've accepted that champagne from those guys, right? And then the way she looked when he said nobody was gonna buy him? I think she figured out he's really not the same kind of crooked Hollywood type she expects out of everybody else."

Tattoo gazed at her, impressed. "Very good, Leslie! Too bad the boss didn't hear that, he'd say the same thing. I think you could go pretty far in this business once you get the hang of things. Come on with me and I'll help you learn some more."

At the hotel they found a minor emergency; a large shipment of mixed-drink ingredients had arrived, and there was no means available by which to get it distributed to its various locations. Tattoo rounded up some of the waiters from the just-ended breakfast shift and assigned them to different supply groups and different destinations while Leslie looked on, trying to make note of everything she heard. Tattoo, catching her, smiled. "I tell you what, Leslie, why don't you help distribute the ones that are going to the lounge here in the hotel," he suggested, handing her a clipboard. "Kono will help you out with that—all you have to do is check off the items as he reads them out to you, okay?"

That sounded simple enough, so Leslie agreed and followed the slender, muscular young native man Tattoo pointed out. Kono smiled and greeted her with a respectful, "Good morning, Miss Leslie."

"Hi," she said with a shy smile. "Tattoo said I should help you out."

"I could use it," he remarked and flashed her a grin that made her grin back. "The hand trucks are already loaded. You take that one and I'll take this one, and we'll come back in a couple of minutes for the other two."

A few minutes later Leslie was checking off supplies on her list as Kono went over them to be sure they were all there; when she finished, he grinned at her again and relieved her of the clipboard. "That was a big help—thanks, Miss Leslie," he said.

"You're welcome," she told him and giggled suddenly. "That was fun."

Kono laughed. "Well, I guess it's fun when you're new to everything. Anyway, have a good day." He nodded at her and left, pulling two of the hand trucks after him.

The bartender grinned at her too. "Before you go, Miss Leslie, would you do me a big favor and feed Coco over there? He's been squawking at me all morning and I haven't had a chance to give him anything." He handed her a small glass bowl full of sunflower seeds and indicated a large red, green and blue parrot sitting on a bamboo perch as if overseeing the activity in the lounge. "I appreciate it."

"No problem," said Leslie, accepting the bowl. Coco saw her coming and bobbed excitedly up and down; as soon as she got close enough and raised the bowl to him, he began plucking seeds out of the bowl and gulping them down at almost light speed. She grinned, amused by the bird's antics.

"Thank goodness," grumbled a voice nearby, and Leslie looked around in surprise to find Sid Gordon himself seated at the nearest table, holding a tall glass of some red concoction with a thick stick of celery poking out of the top. "That stupid bird's been yakking loud enough to make me deaf."

"Sorry, Mr. Gordon," Leslie said timidly.

Gordon twisted around in his seat enough to really look at her. "Oh," he said, as if in surprise, "you're just a kid. Didn't mean to scare ya." He offered a smile that didn't quite reassure. "Thanks for feeding that bird, huh?" She nodded, and he turned back in his chair, taking a long sip of his drink and gazing absently into space.

Coco presently finished his breakfast and squawked at Leslie, "Thank you." This caught Gordon's attention again, but he merely snorted quietly and looked away.

"You're welcome, Coco," Leslie said with a grin, delighted, and returned the bowl to the bartender. He thanked her and actually handed her a five-dollar bill; she tried to demur, but he insisted, and she gave in at last.

"You did me a huge favor, even if it seems like something small. Coco'll be fine now till this evening," he said. "It didn't seem right to let you go without some kind of thanks."

"That was really nice of you, thank you," Leslie said with another shy smile, and he grinned, gave her a quick salute and turned aside to tend to several guests waiting at the bar. Leslie slid the bill into a pocket of her sundress and decided to head out and look for Tattoo, but once again was stopped in her tracks when she saw Jean Arden stride up to Sid Gordon's table, an icy look on her face.

Gordon, looking surprised, gulped back some of his drink. "Oh…good morning, doll! All set for the big event?"

"Not quite, Mr. Rat," Jean said coldly. Leslie stared at her, so fascinated that it never occurred to her that she was openly eavesdropping. "You're using him, aren't you?"

Gordon squinted at her in puzzlement. "Using who? What're you talking about?"

"That nice, sweet, naïve Felix Birdsong. You've set him up as a patsy!"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Gordon said and took another draft from his glass, his gaze falling away from Jean's.

"Sid, I just came from your office, where I went through your personal files and your personal set of books," Jean announced. Gordon stared up at her with a touch of alarm in his eyes. "Now, you've oversold the picture, Sid: fifty percent to Big Billy Tidwell, fifty percent to the oil sheik, and as far as I can figure out, about a hundred and twenty percent to that moron Hammerhead Harris. _And,"_ she concluded, "you promised each and every one of them that their girl would be the star!"

"Oh…hey…so they'll get a little sore at Birdsong," Gordon said, revealing his flustered state through his vague stammering. "Uh…so…so what?"

Outraged, Jean exclaimed, "Sid, this is no small-potato deal! Felix could get hurt or worse!" She glared expectantly at him.

Gordon sighed and tried to placate her. "Listen, doll. How'd you like a nice boost in salary and a new title?" Jean looked even more outraged and offended. "As of right now, you're raised a hundred bucks a week and you're associate producer on the film." He beamed at her. "Aren't I wonderful?"

For a moment Jean stared at him; a slight smile bloomed on her face and Leslie thought she could just hear the woman chuckling derisively to herself, before she reached over, removed Gordon's glass from his hand and calmly upended it over his head. With that she slammed the empty glass back onto the table and stalked out.

Gordon stared morosely after her, dripping red Bloody Mary, cradling the stalk of celery and several ice cubes in his arms, and sighed to himself, "I shoulda made it two hundred bucks a week." Leslie slapped a hand over her mouth and sneaked out of the lounge as fast as she dared tiptoe, anticipating relating to Tattoo what she'd heard.

It turned out he'd already departed; the headwaiter told her he had left word that she should return to the main house, so she headed that way, grateful that she didn't have to go hunting Tattoo down the way she had the previous day. She did, fortunately, find Roarke in the study, just accepting a large batch of mail. "Wow," she said, as the postal carrier dug out a number of rubber-banded stacks of envelopes. "Mail on Sunday?"

Roarke chuckled. "We deal with so much correspondence here that the mail must be delivered seven days a week," he told her. "You're just in time to sort these out." He thanked the postal carrier, who smiled at Leslie and departed, and turned to his ward. "Where did Tattoo go?"

"I don't know," she said. "I was helping out one of the guys in the lounge at the hotel, and some stuff came up, and when I came back out he was already gone. The headwaiter said he told him to tell me to come back here." She remembered then and pulled the bill from her pocket. "I actually earned five dollars just for feeding the parrot in the lounge. I guess the bartender was rushed and didn't have a chance, so he asked me to do it."

Roarke laughed. "Good for you."

"I overheard something else too," said Leslie, and on his interested look, related the conversation she had witnessed between Sid Gordon and Jean Arden. Roarke nodded now and then as she spoke, and when she finished, he smiled.

"It seems your hunch yesterday about Mr. Gordon was correct," he observed.

"My hunch…? Oh yeah," she recalled suddenly. She grinned sheepishly, thrilled to know that she was doing so much better today after yesterday's little fiasco. Deciding she'd better play it safe to be sure her good luck lasted out the day, she readily agreed when Roarke pushed the rubber-banded mail in her direction and asked her to sort it.

The day wore along and Tattoo remained absent; when lunchtime came and went and he was still a no-show, Roarke frowned. "Apparently he's been extremely busy this morning. I didn't think there were that many fires to be put out."

"Shouldn't I have gone with him?" Leslie wondered.

Roarke smiled at her. "Actually, I suspect if he had needed your help, he would have contacted us and requested it. You've been a big help to me here, so don't think your efforts are going unappreciated." He extracted his gold watch from his vest, checked it, then clicked it closed and replaced it. "You can take a short break and come with me to see Ms. Garwood after the meal. Don't hurry."


	5. Chapter 5

§ § § - February 18, 1979

About half an hour later she accompanied him to Jane Garwood's bungalow, where to their surprise, the door stood open. As they climbed the steps onto the little porch, they could hear Tattoo's voice inside, and Roarke hesitated, about to knock. He met Leslie's gaze and they stared at each other as they heard Tattoo speaking solemnly.

"Before I met Mr. Roarke," he was saying, "I was nobody in the world. People used to laugh at me. Nobody took me seriously. And when I met him, I knew that he loved me more than anyone did. He's my friend. I love him." There was a short, pregnant pause; Leslie saw Roarke smile and close his eyes briefly before Tattoo added in earnest, "I would die for him." Her eyes widened and she met Roarke's gaze again; even he looked surprised.

He smiled at her, nodded once and placed a finger against his lips for just a moment, then cleared his throat slightly and called, "Tattoo?" as he entered the bungalow with Leslie right behind him, still stunned at what she had heard. Both Tattoo and Jane shifted their startled attention to Roarke, and Jane shot up from her chair. Looking unusually solemn, Roarke requested, "Would you care to tell me why you're here?"

Tattoo and Jane looked at each other, and finally Jane spoke up. "He told me what happened last night," she said.

"Oh, I see," said Roarke, and turned his unsmiling gaze on Tattoo, whose eyes gleamed with anxiety. "I think you had better leave us now, my friend. Take Leslie with you, if you would, please."

Tattoo frowned, glanced at Jane once and approached Roarke. "Boss…you're not mad at me, are you?"

At this Roarke smiled a little, his features softening, and shook his head reassuringly. Tattoo smiled, clearly in relief, and Leslie couldn't help responding to the open emotion in the air. She could see in Jane's face that she, too, was affected by it, and they traded smiles of their own before Tattoo glanced back at Jane once more, then touched Leslie's hand and departed. She followed him out, marveling.

"Tattoo, what were you really doing there?" she asked when they were some distance from the bungalow. "I mean, if it's okay for me to ask."

He paused, frowning, then focused on her. "Let's wait till we get back to the house before I tell you," he said. She agreed, but found herself half running all the way there.

In the study Tattoo paused in front of the desk, drumming his fingers atop it and looking pensive. Finally he told her baldly, "I paid Jane Garwood to leave the island."

Leslie gaped at him. "You _bribed_ her?"

He seemed unabashed. "I guess you could call it that. I just don't want anything to happen to the boss, not after last night. I told her about the cobra and I gave her the Black Mass symbol. I think I convinced her. She said it was the only thing she could do."

"You bribed her," mumbled Leslie, amazed. "But with what? I mean…"

His gaze on hers remained steady. "I sold my car and my horse…everything I had that I can do without. It's worth it if it saves the boss's life."

She blinked at him, speechless. Again she remembered the words she and Roarke had overheard him saying to Jane, and felt her face heating so that she had to look away. "I…I didn't know you were so…that it was like that, I mean."

"Like what?" he asked.

"That you feel so close to Mr. Roarke. I figured it was like you were brothers or something. But it's almost like he was your…" She floundered for the proper term.

"You could say he saved my life," Tattoo said softly, and she looked up to see his expression far away. "He was the only person in the world who ever saw anything in me besides that funny-looking short guy with the crazy accent. He didn't care about that. He saw what's inside me. I don't know how he did it and I'm not even gonna try to figure it out. I just know that he looked past the outside of me and saw what matters, and he made me feel like a human being, like I mattered and I belonged."

"Wow," breathed Leslie, overwhelmed.

He refocused on her and grinned a little. "I just want him safe. And anyway, he made your mother a promise, so he has to keep that promise." He winked.

She laughed, and they squeezed hands before he surveyed the stacks of mail on the desk. "Wow, Kali really brought a load today, didn't she? You better get back to work."

Roarke returned to the house just as a high-schooler from the telegraph office came in bearing a piece of yellow paper. "Oh good," he said. "This is for you, sir."

"Thank you," said Roarke and tipped the boy, then unfolded the sheet and read it.

"What's that?" Leslie asked.

"A cable from Sister Mary Theresa's convent," he said, folding it once and placing it on the desk under a paperweight. He studied her as he sat behind the desk. "You've made a good deal of progress on that, Leslie. Thank you."

She shrugged diffidently. "It's fun."

"Indeed." He grinned at her and pulled a ledger toward him.

Tattoo fielded three more telegrams through the afternoon, all of them from the same source as the first, and Roarke finally glanced at the clock before arising. "Tattoo, would you remain here and take any calls? Leslie, come with me, you can have a short break."

It felt good to get up and stretch and move her muscles, and she considered asking Roarke about what they had heard Tattoo say at Jane Garwood's bungalow earlier. However, she ultimately chickened out and ventured instead, "Tattoo told me he bribed Ms. Garwood to leave the island."

Roarke looked around at her. "Oh?"

"Yup. Said he sold his car and his horse and a bunch of other stuff so he could get enough money to make her leave. He said he sold everything he could live without, and it would be worth it if it saved your life."

Roarke smiled faintly and shook his head once or twice to himself. "I know he meant well," he murmured.

"Is she leaving?" Leslie asked.

"No. I believe I convinced her to remain, so that we could find out the answer to the problem once and for all. If she accepted Tattoo's money and ran, her stalker would most likely go on torturing and harassing her for an indefinite period, perhaps until he brought about Ms. Garwood's own death."

Leslie winced. "That'd make me stay, all right." Roarke chuckled and patted her shoulder, and they went on along the paths.

Finally, near the spectacular waterfall that Leslie remembered seeing from the charter plane on her own arrival, they found Mary Hoyt standing beside a small niche in the rock that held some sort of religious statue. She was holding one of the half-tame doves that were so thick on the ground around the resort; she must have heard Roarke and Leslie approach, for she looked around, then put the dove down and turned to face them.

"Ms. Hoyt," Roarke began, "I thought I might find you here."

"Is everything okay?" she asked.

"Well, there have been several urgent cables from the convent," he explained.

Mary's face puckered with concern. "Is something wrong?"

"No, no…it's just that, uh…Mother Superior has said that she must know in the next twenty-four hours whether or not you will take your final vows." _Aha,_ thought Leslie, _so that's what all those telegrams were about._

"Oh yes," Mary murmured. "My leave of absence will be over tomorrow." Roarke nodded agreement, and she let out a little sigh. "Guess there are a lot of decisions I have to make." She met Roarke's gaze. "Colin has asked me to marry him."

Roarke smiled, seemed about to say something, but even Leslie could see the torn look on Mary's face. Still, she offered hopefully, "That's really great—congratulations."

Mary smiled, but only faintly, and Leslie compressed her lips and held back any other comments. Roarke cleared his throat. "Good luck, Miss Hoyt, we will leave you to your thoughts. Leslie?"

He clearly sensed her opinion on this particular fantasy, for he surprised her by saying as they walked, "You're hoping Miss Hoyt will marry Colin MacArthur, aren't you?"

"Yeah," she admitted through a sigh. "I guess I'm thinking of all the life she'd miss out on, shut up in a convent like that. No husband, no family, no home of her own."

"Some," Roarke reflected, "feel such a calling to their deity that they can conceive of no other life but serving that deity. And while it certainly isn't for everyone, you must remember, Leslie, that it's entirely their choice to make. They do find great fulfillment in the life they lead—a life of quiet contemplation, of service and devotion, and doing all they can to help others in need."

She absorbed that for a time. "I guess that's true, but…I don't know, it just seems like such a sad thing anyway, at least to me. I think I'd feel like I was in some kind of prison or something. I mean, don't you always have to ask the Mother Superior for permission to do everything and to even go outside the convent?"

"There is that," he said, "but as I said, some prefer such a restricted, cloistered life. All you can do, Leslie, is make the decisions that best fit you and your needs and wishes, and let others do the same."

She nodded. "I get your point, Mr. Roarke."

"Good. Well, we still have that paperwork awaiting us; let's get back as quickly as we can. There's quite a bit to do."

They met Tattoo on the way back, and found that he was on his way to see Felix Birdsong; Roarke nodded approval and ushered Leslie along the last short distance. She was looking forward to sorting the letters, because she always looked at addresses or postmarks to see where they came from; but the idea fled her mind utterly when she and Roarke stepped into the inner foyer and saw a strange man standing in front of the desk. He turned around when he heard them come in and raised what appeared to be a sharp blade about six inches long. Leslie wondered who he was; he was middle-aged, with a long face and a receding hairline, wearing a business suit and tie in understated solid colors.

Roarke stopped where he was at the top of the steps and met the man's unflinching gaze with a cold one of his own; Leslie hung there beside him, looking on with wide eyes. "I was just admiring your antiques," the stranger said coolly, with remarkable aplomb.

Roarke nodded and allowed a chilly little smile as he stepped down into the study. "What can I do for you, Mr. Marsh?" he asked.

"Oh, I think the point is," Marsh said, barely allowing Roarke to finish, "what can I do for you?"

"I beg your pardon?" parried Roarke.

Marsh replaced the blade on the desk and eyed him. "I believe you know that you and your girlfriend are the talk of the island," he remarked with a little chuckle.

Roarke responded accordingly, but there was no warmth in his eyes. "You mean Ms. Garwood," he prompted.

Marsh iced over. "Will you come off it, Roarke? I came here to warn you. This curse business—it's nonsense. It's her—she's the killer."

Leslie stared at him, just as happy that he didn't seem to even notice she was there, while Roarke drew in a breath and let his smile half linger. "I see." The tone of his voice made it unmistakably clear that he thought this was ludicrous.

"You don't believe me," exclaimed Marsh, looking and sounding incredulous.

Roarke turned leisurely back to face him, smiled and took a seat. "Why do you dislike her so intensely, Mr. Marsh?" he inquired in a convivial tone.

Marsh turned long enough to retrieve a photograph from the pile of papers on the uncharacteristically messy desk. "Mr. Roarke, this is Paul Kendall," he said, handing Roarke the photo. Leslie could see it over her guardian's shoulder; it was the grim-looking man with the vivid red X scar on his face. "He was my friend. We came up in the business together; he was her producer. He was a fine newsman till he met her. Then suddenly, all he cared about was her career. So he created her—and then he died."

Roarke nodded. "And you really believe she killed three men to further her career."

"When she picks up that award this evening, she'll be the biggest thing on television," said Marsh. "People have killed for less than that."

"I see," said Roarke again, nodding, the smile returning. "Well, unfortunately, there is a very large flaw in your theory, Mr. Marsh. You see, Ms. Garwood is determined to retire." Marsh's eyebrows flicked up, and Roarke nodded confirmation. "Oh, it's true—the press release was distributed an hour ago. The award ceremony will be her last appearance, ever, on television." Marsh's eyebrows drew together in disbelief, and Roarke arose. "Now, if you'll excuse me…"

Before he could beckon a skittish Leslie into the room, Marsh said, "Of course I'll excuse you. I just hope your judgment isn't so clouded that you've fallen in love with her. It's an attraction that's proved fatal for three men already." With that, he headed out, brushing past Leslie with little more than a glance at her.

She waited till he was gone before she edged into the room, while he stared at the picture he held, frowned and settled down. "I don't like him," she finally announced.

Roarke seemed to come out of a reverie and focused on her, grinning again. "I think you may be quite wise, Leslie. Well, suppose you come over here and try to organize this unusual mess. I find it…shall we say, aesthetically unappealing." She let out a laugh and began to gather papers and envelopes together to sort through them.

She didn't notice his pensive mien, busy as she was, till he arose without warning and made her look up in startlement. "I'm sorry, Leslie. I am not expecting any phone calls, but if any do come in, please take a message and tell them I will call back as soon as I can. I think it best that I get Ms. Garwood and bring her back here, for her own safety. We shouldn't be very long, so you can go on as you are."

"Okay, Mr. Roarke," she said, and watched him leave the room with long, rapid strides, glancing at the phone once and then returning to her task. Her guardian was as good as his word and returned within twenty minutes, Jane Garwood in tow.

"Oh, hi there," Jane greeted her.

"Hi, Ms. Garwood," said Leslie, returning her smile.

"This is my ward, Leslie Hamilton," Roarke explained. "She has been with us just two weeks; so far she's been quite a help to me with the correspondence." He winked at Leslie. "Why don't you have a seat, make yourself comfortable. Leslie…I have another task for you, if you would. Get a driver, and have him take you to your school—the announcements for the _Most Beautiful Girl in the World_ winner will be made in the amphitheater there, and Tattoo will be there. Tell him I sent you, all right?"

"Got it, Mr. Roarke," agreed Leslie. "Bye, Ms. Garwood." Jane smiled and waved at her in farewell, and Leslie ventured out front, where sure enough, a rover was waiting. She asked the driver to take her to school; it was a strange feeling coming there on a weekend, but she followed the noise she heard and stepped hurriedly down the rows to the curtained half-round stage, where she could just see Tattoo talking to someone. "Tattoo!"

He turned and spotted her. "Hi, Leslie, come on up here," he called, and she climbed onto the edge of the stage while he ducked behind the curtain and pulled it around to hide them from the growing audience. "Something wrong?"

"No, Mr. Roarke sent me over," she said. "I think he's got something planned for Ms. Garwood and he wanted to be sure I was safe someplace else."

"Okay. Well, wait here backstage." Tattoo was grinning from ear to ear for some reason. "I have to make the announcement in a minute. We've got a plan, but don't tell any-one, okay?"

"How could I when I don't even know what it is?" she asked practically.

He laughed. "That's true. Okay, just wait here. It won't take long." He went over to the center of the stage and took his place behind a microphone; the twenty finalists for the film role were still gathering in a curved line behind him, each dressed in a green, red or blue one-piece swimsuit, all looking nervous. Leslie picked out the Brooklynite, the Minnesotan and the British girl she'd met the day before, and was looking for the Spanish one when the curtain parted and began to draw back. She edged farther back into the wings while a fanfare played and applause and whistling welled up.

"Thank you, thank you," Tattoo called out, smiling broadly. "Welcome. This afternoon, one lucky girl will be chosen to star in the picture _The Most Beautiful Girl in the World."_ Leslie watched a few of the girls winking, smiling suggestively, blowing kisses into the audience, and realized these were the "sponsored" girls who expected to win. "The man who is gonna choose the lucky winner is Mr. Birdsong." He gestured toward his left, opposite where Leslie stood.

She glanced into the audience and noticed the smile fall off Sid Gordon's saturnine features; she had to grin, recalling what she'd overheard that morning. She returned her attention to the stage, where Felix Birdsong ventured out, looking uncertain, then regained his composure and took Tattoo's place at the microphone. "Thank you for your generous welcome," he said while Tattoo retreated to join Leslie in the wings. "You know, choosing the most beautiful girl in the world hasn't been easy. They say that, uh, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and I believe that. And with that thought in mind, I have made my final decision." Instantly a drum roll began, and Leslie noticed that Tattoo's enormous grin had come back and his eyes were glittering with anticipation.

"What?" she prodded him.

He flashed the grin at her. "Wait and see. It's gonna be good," he promised.

"Today's winner," Birdsong began, "the girl who is going to win twenty-five thousand dollars from Mr. Sid Gordon and his backers, and who will star in the film _The Most Beautiful Girl in the World,_ is…" He took a breath and Leslie held hers. "Number one through number twenty! I say all the girls are winners, and all of them get the prize money!"

In the audience Leslie saw heads turn and people sitting up; the sheik, Hammerhead Harris, and Billy Tidwell all gaped at a stunned-looking Sid Gordon. She blinked, saw Tattoo's grin again, and suddenly began to laugh in delight. "Wow!"

The audience applauded and whistled; all twenty finalists began shrieking and hugging one another ecstatically, and Leslie saw Sid Gordon's lips form the incredulous words "Twenty winners?! And twenty-five grand apiece?!" She followed Gordon's line of sight and realized he was glaring at Birdsong, who hastily scuttled backstage. When Gordon spoke again, Leslie could actually hear him. "That'll cost me five hundred thousand dollars!"

At that point the sheik leaped to his feet and started back up the tiers; Harris wasn't far behind him. Gordon saw them coming and barreled out of his own seat, clearly bent on hiding somewhere; unfortunately for him, one of the sheik's lackeys blocked his exit and his two pursuers caught up with him, hauling him away out of sight. Leslie giggled, though some tiny part of her felt just a little sorry for the man.

"What a finish," she said. "How'd it happen?"

Tattoo beamed at her. "Mr. Birdsong and I came up with it together," he told her. "See, Miss Arden found out that Sid Gordon oversold the picture…"

"That, I know about," Leslie broke in, and quickly explained having overheard that conversation in the lounge that morning.

Tattoo nodded. "I see. Well, she told Mr. Birdsong about it after he saw the last finalist, and when I went to see him later on, he was in the lounge getting drunk. He told me all about it. Said that she told him Sid Gordon probably wasn't even gonna make the movie, and all that mattered to him now was making money. You ever see a movie called _Blossoms in the Snow_?"

Leslie shook her head slowly. "I don't think so, but I'm pretty sure my mother probably did. She liked old movies."

"That was his last big, successful movie, and that was something like ten or twelve years ago. He's come out with one flop after another since then, and Miss Arden said he's been getting more and more desperate. She figured he was gonna take the money and run, and set up Mr. Birdsong as the fall guy; and she didn't want that happening to him. He was so upset, I just had to help him out. And we came up with this idea." He glanced into the audience, although most of them had left by now and pretty much all that remained was a bunch of reporters and cameramen, all trying to snag one of the winners for an interview. "I think it worked out really well. Look at all those media people—this'll get out and Gordon will have to make the movie now."

"Well, he better hope it's a smash," Leslie remarked, shaking her head. "His three pet backers saw him trying to sneak out and caught him, so I think they're gonna force him to go through with the thing."

"And he should," Tattoo agreed. "Well, okay, I think we're done here. It's late, you feel like having something to eat?"

"Sure…I'm hungry," she said, and they headed across the stage, weaving through the excited winners, and noticing on the way that Felix Birdsong and Jean Arden were busily kissing each other. "Hey, look at that!"

"We get a lot of romance on this island," Tattoo said with a broad smile. "You'll see, the longer you live here. Come on, I'm hungry too."

They returned to the main house and had the evening meal there, with Jane Garwood as their guest; she complimented a beaming Mana'olana on her cooking, and the portly native woman promptly used it to admonish Leslie. "Now, there, you see? There's a lady who knows how to appreciate good food. You should take a cue from her."

Leslie's jaw sank and she gawked after Mana'olana, who gave her no time to reply but departed immediately. "Hey!" she finally protested faintly.

"What in the world…?" said Jane, looking half bewildered, half amused.

Leslie scowled and slumped slightly in her chair. "Oh, she's always yelling at me because she thinks I don't eat enough," she grumped. "But I never thought she'd do it in front of a guest!" She sat up and stared pleadingly at Roarke. "Do you think that was fair, Mr. Roarke? I mean, that was really embarrassing!"

Roarke chuckled. "As a matter of fact, no, Leslie, I quite agree with you," he said. "I promise you, I'll have a little talk with her tomorrow. Why don't you go ahead and finish; we have a busy evening ahead of us."

He excused himself a little ahead of the others to make some telephone calls, while Tattoo, Leslie and Jane completed the meal at their leisure. When they returned to the study, he explained that he had set up a watch around Jane's bungalow in order to nab the person who had been harassing her for so long. "One way or another, we'll solve this mystery and bring this person to justice," he promised.

"That'll be a relief," Jane admitted, sighing. "I'm more than ready to move on to a new phase of my life."

"So you're really retiring?" Leslie asked.

"That's right. I've achieved what I wanted to, professionally. I have some other things I'd like to do. I haven't decided what just yet, but fortunately, I have enough time and money to take a little while to make up my mind."

"That's great," said Leslie. "Good luck, whatever you do."

Jane smiled and thanked her, and for a little while the foursome sat and talked, waiting for a call that would tell them the perpetrator was in custody. But the phone sat silent while sunset came and went, and the night settled fully in. Roarke began checking the clock from time to time, trying not to let the others see that he was becoming restless; but they inevitably picked up on his tension, and at last he decided something needed to be done. "I think it best that you remain here, Ms. Garwood. The squad at your bungalow may need some assistance." He paused for a moment, regarding his ward; then he cleared his throat. "I think the best thing for you, Leslie, is to accompany Tattoo and me. You should stay in the car, but I'd rather have you with me. We will return as quickly as we can, Ms. Garwood."

"I'll be waiting right here," Jane assured him, and Roarke nodded and led Tattoo and Leslie out of the house. From there he drove them over to Jane's bungalow, which stood lit as if someone were inside; he pulled to a stop at the front walk and parked, and both he and Tattoo got out of the car and hesitated, looking around.

Leslie slipped out of the car to stand beside Tattoo; a night crier repeated its mournful song somewhere nearby, backed up by a chorus of crickets and tree frogs, while they watched Roarke go up to a young native standing by one side of the bungalow, holding a walkie-talkie in one hand. "Anything yet?" he asked.

"Quiet as a cemetery, Mr. Roarke," said the native.

Roarke frowned and returned to join Leslie and Tattoo, shaking his head. "I don't like this, Tattoo," he said. "Something is wrong."

"What's happening?" Tattoo asked.

"Nothing, that's just it. It's perfectly quiet." Roarke looked a bit frustrated. "I was certain the announcement of Ms. Garwood's retirement would force him to make a move."

"Him? Who?" protested Tattoo.

"The one responsible for the curse," Roarke said slowly, frowning into the trees, "and if I'm not mistaken, someone who's come onto our island uninvited." Tattoo's eyes widened and he glanced at Leslie; one of the first things she had learned was that there was no access to Fantasy Island without a blue or green charter-plane pass. She peered up at Roarke, who frowned again. "Come, we'd better make a phone call. I want to make sure Ms. Garwood is safe. Come with us, Leslie."

The three of them walked rapidly into the bungalow, where Roarke picked up the phone, checked for a dial tone and got one, and dialed for an outside line, then the number to the main house. Tattoo and Leslie watched in tense, still silence while he waited for a response; after about fifteen seconds he queried, "Ms. Garwood?"

They could hear Jane's voice sparking out of the receiver occasionally and watched Roarke's face relax into a relieved smile. "Yes, perfectly," he said to whatever she asked. "What about you?"

For a few seconds there were the sounds of Jane's voice speaking; then they vanished, and Roarke's eyes widened with alarm. Then, so loudly that even Tattoo and Leslie clearly heard it, a terrified scream poured out of the receiver. Leslie gasped, even as Roarke hung up the phone and made for the door without further ado. She and Tattoo rushed out after him, with Tattoo yelling, "What happened, boss?"

"I don't know," Roarke replied, running for the car without looking back.

"Where are we going?" Tattoo persisted.

"You are staying here, my friend," Roarke ordered stridently, "out of danger, and Leslie is to remain right here with you." He slung himself into the front seat of the rover and started the engine. "I have a hunch—which had better be right." He shifted into gear and peeled out of the lane, leaving deep tire tracks in the dirt. Tattoo stared after him.

"Now what?" Leslie asked, surprised to hear her voice shake slightly.

Tattoo threw his hands into the air. "I guess we stay here!" He looked around as Roarke's little "capture squad" began to assemble in front of the bungalow. "It's not like we don't have protection if something happens."

"What was that all about?" asked the young native Roarke had spoken briefly with a few minutes before.

Leslie explained quickly about the phone call while Tattoo led them all into the bungalow, where they could at least be near a phone. All they could do from that point was to sit and wait; there was a little conversation among the four native men, but Leslie felt too shy to join in, and Tattoo had begun to pace the floor, glowering at nothing.

The next half hour elapsed in excruciating slow motion while the phone remained silent and Tattoo paced so much that Leslie could see a flattened rut in the carpet where he kept retracing his tracks over and over. Leslie wished she knew what time it was, and began scanning the room for some sort of timepiece. She finally noticed a small clock on the wall to the left of the little entry, and was amazed to see that it wasn't even eight yet.

The conversation had long since died, and Leslie found herself actually starting to get bored; she couldn't stand watching Tattoo stalking back and forth anymore and was peering at the phone, trying to decide whether she dared call one of her friends. She could just imagine telling them at school the next day about their exciting weekend, and almost wanted to call Michiko now and get a head start on the narration.

The minute hand of the clock had crept a little past the 12 when they all heard a car approach outside, and as one the six of them stampeded to the door and crammed their way through. Roarke and Jane Garwood stepped out of the rover, and Tattoo breathed a loud sigh of relief, his face split wide open by a gigantic grin.

"Everything okay?" one of the natives asked.

"It's all over," Roarke assured them. "Thank you all for your assistance and patience; you're free to return home now."

The natives dispersed, and Roarke escorted Jane back into the bungalow. "What happened?" Tattoo demanded.

"Did you figure out who the harasser was?" Leslie added.

Roarke and Jane both nodded, and Jane said with a note of disbelief in her voice, "It was Paul Kendall. I'd thought he was dead all this time, but apparently he faked it."

"Why was he harassing her?" Tattoo asked.

"He is the one who created Ms. Garwood's television image, built her career as a journalist," Roarke explained. "Anything he saw as a threat to that image had to be removed; that's why he killed Jim Cowell and Burt Winn. He staged his own death as well so as to avoid capture; that's why no one ever found his body."

"If he killed Ms. Garwood, though, the image would still be destroyed," Leslie said in sudden realization. "So that's kind of defeating the purpose, isn't it?"

"No, because I announced my retirement today," Jane said. "I destroyed the image myself, so I guess he decided it was time to kill me."

"That's sick," muttered Leslie, hugging herself.

"Where is he now?" Tattoo asked.

"He's dead," said Roarke quietly. "He and I got into a scuffle after he threw a cobra at me. When he went down, the snake bit him, and the venom acted too quickly for him to be saved." He reached for the phone. "I'd better call the hospital and have them send out some workers from the morgue to retrieve the body so it can be returned to his family."

Having made the call, Roarke bid Jane good night, and she thanked him several times over before he, Tattoo and Leslie departed for the main house. "What a night," Leslie murmured, blowing out her breath. "I'm glad it's all over."

"Me too," agreed Tattoo emphatically.

"I presume both of you should sleep well tonight, then," remarked Roarke in amusement. "Remember, though, we're not quite through yet; Miss Hoyt's fantasy has not yet been resolved, and she hasn't much time in which to complete that resolution."


	6. Chapter 6

§ § § - February 19, 1979

To their surprise, just after breakfast and as they were preparing to go to the plane dock, Jane Garwood came to the main house. Tattoo answered her knock and exclaimed, "Oh, Ms. Garwood!" Roarke looked up and arose as Tattoo went on, "I'm so happy you won the award."

"Oh, thank you, Tattoo," Jane said warmly, and came into the study, where she smiled at Leslie and focused on Roarke. "I just wanted to stop and say goodbye."

"I'm glad you did," he said. "Have you decided what you will do now?"

"No, but I'm definitely going to take a leave and think about it," she told him.

"I see." Roarke smiled.

She hunched her shoulders, her smile warm and relieved, and Leslie thought she looked as if an enormous weight had been lifted away. "I suppose it's safe now if anyone wants to care for me," Jane said, half jokingly.

"Care for you?" echoed Roarke, and a light filled his eyes. "The Spaniards have a proverb…well, actually, they have a proverb to fit any situation." Jane and Leslie both laughed at that, exchanging merry glances; in the background, Tattoo grinned. "But this one says that you can want a woman for her body, but you can love her only for her character." He smiled. "I think many men will want to love you, Ms. Garwood."

At that Jane smiled again, and she and Roarke shook hands. "That's very generous of you, Mr. Roarke. Thank you again, for all you've done."

"All in a weekend's work," Tattoo spoke up, and they all laughed.

"I still appreciate it more than you can know," Jane said to him. "Well, I guess I'd better get my bags and get to the plane dock quick. Thank you again." She left, and Roarke cast a glance at the grandfather clock.

"We'll have to hurry to get to the plane dock too. Are you ready, Leslie?" he asked, and she nodded, standing up and stepping into her shoes.

"I wish we'd seen Mary Hoyt before now," she said, frowning.

"We'll soon find out. Come now," Roarke said, and they departed the house.

Jane Garwood arrived within seconds of their appearance at the dock, and thanked them yet again before heading up the dock and waving at each of them individually. Then a rover pulled up and discharged Felix Birdsong and Jean Arden, who looked quite chummy, Leslie thought. Birdsong clung to Jean's hand the entire time they stood there.

"Thank you gentlemen…and Leslie…for a wonderful experience," Jean said.

"You are most welcome, Miss Arden; and what about you, Mr. Birdsong? Was the fantasy worth it?" Roarke inquired.

Birdsong was beaming. "Y'know, I was just wondering the same thing until a few minutes ago."

"What happened?" asked Tattoo.

Jean turned to him. "Well, I called my brother, who runs the accounting department at Monument Pictures."

"And?" Roarke prompted.

"Well, he offered me a full-time job working in the accounting department," Birdsong told them. On their faintly confused looks, he added with a big grin, "Don't you see, Mr. Roarke? As of tomorrow morning, I really will be in showbiz!"

"Oh, congratulations, Mr. Birdsong," Roarke said, shaking hands, and Birdsong and Jean thanked him, shook hands with Tattoo and grinned at Leslie, and made their way off to the dock to board the plane. They had hardly gone when a third rover drove up and let out Mary Hoyt, who as Leslie could see was clad in full nun's habit. She felt disappointment settle in her stomach and wondered what had happened that Mary had made this choice.

"Well, sister, I see you've made your decision," said Roarke. "I hope we were of some assistance."

"Oh yes, Mr. Roarke, more than you'll ever know. I realize now that I've been living my real fantasy all along. Thank you very much."

"You're very welcome, sister," Roarke said with a smile, shaking hands with her. They said their farewells, and Sister Mary Theresa retreated up the dock, turning once to wave and call a last goodbye. Leslie watched her go, wishing she could find out the full story, wondering if she would ever know.

"Oh, uh, Tattoo," Roarke said then, derailing her train of thought for the moment. "The money you tried to give Ms. Garwood? She returned it to me."

Tattoo hung his head. "I don't care. Now that I've sold my horse and my car…"

Roarke nodded once or twice, then smiled a little secretively. "Well, as a matter of fact…" He gestured across the clearing, and both Tattoo and Leslie looked around that way for the first time, only to see Tattoo's car and pony waiting there for him. "I bought them back," Roarke said.

"Boss! Oh, thank you very much!" Tattoo exclaimed.

"Yes…the gentleman insisted on twelve hundred dollars," Roarke told him.

Tattoo looked outraged. "Twelve hundred dollars?" Roarke nodded, and Tattoo protested, "But he gave me only one thousand!"

"That's a cheat," said Leslie, indignant on Tattoo's behalf.

Roarke chuckled. "Well, it seems he has a rule: he buys low and sells high."

Tattoo shook his head slightly and stared apologetically up at Roarke. "Boss, I'm sorry. Every time I try to do something, I cost you money."

Roarke only smiled warmly. "Tattoo, I consider a dear, true friendship such as ours beyond any price."

Tattoo beamed, and Leslie had to smile; something about the bond between these two got to her every time. "Thank you, boss, thank you very much." They clasped hands and shook, and Roarke slipped an arm around Leslie's shoulders, lest she feel left out, as they all turned to watch the plane depart.

§ § § - June 25, 2008

"Did you ever get that resolution to the nun's fantasy, Leslie? You didn't tell us about that," Myeko said. "I wondered about that for a long time."

"We did, yes," Leslie said. "Colin MacArthur, the vet, came to the main house that afternoon after school, after I'd told you and Lauren and Michiko about the fantasy at lunch that day. He seemed a little suspicious of Father at first. The first thing Dr. MacArthur did was ask if Father had brought him here under some kind of false pretense."

"Did you, Mr. Roarke?" Camille asked.

"Does it look that way to you?" Roarke inquired with a half-smile. "It happens that Dr. MacArthur was the best veterinarian I knew of to handle a problem I had noticed among the island's wild-bird population—specifically our elusive night criers. He had done extensive work with wild animals in Africa for quite a few years, but traveled back to the states at intervals when needed. I had been wondering for some time whom to contact about the night criers' plight when I received Sister Mary Theresa's letter. From her description I knew it could only be Dr. MacArthur; and by the way, that is precisely what I told the good doctor himself when he pressed me."

"He must've cured them," Lauren remarked, "whatever it was. I never stopped hearing them at night."

Roarke smiled. "Indeed he did, and his expertise did not go unrewarded, let me assure you. In any case, the fact is that Dr. MacArthur, while he did propose to Sister Mary Theresa, explained that he as much as told the young lady that he had not come to Fantasy Island with the purpose in mind of marrying her."

"Then why'd he propose in the first place?" asked Myeko, outraged. "If he was in love with her and wanted to marry her, what a thing to say!"

"He proposed before he realized who she really was," Leslie said. "He explained that he had finally discovered the previous evening that they'd met before and that she was a close friend of his friend, Sister Margaret—the nun who died young of cancer. Then he gave Father a letter and asked him to read it, which he did, out loud. It was then that I finally understood the reason Mary Hoyt returned to her life as Sister Mary Theresa."

"What did it say?" Christian asked.

"He said Sister Margaret probably wrote and sent it just before she died. She talked about how much pain she was in, how she would have renounced her vows and her life and everything else, if it hadn't been for the way Sister Mary Theresa was always there. She was always cheerful, always available if Sister Margaret needed anything, making her last days as comfortable as possible, and as Sister Margaret put it, holding the whole convent school together. Sister Mary Theresa had kept everything going just by being her upbeat self. She had thought when she came here that she wasn't being used for the purpose for which she'd offered herself when she first became a nun, but Sister Margaret's letter told her otherwise. So she decided to take her final vows after all."

A soft silence fell while the others contemplated this; even Myeko looked placated. "I wonder if he ever did find someone to marry?" she mused.

Roarke grinned. "My dear Myeko, you have a romantic streak in you that must be at least as large as your heart. We haven't heard anything of Dr. MacArthur, or Sister Mary Theresa, since that weekend so long ago; but I am sure they both led very fulfilling lives, and it's entirely possible that they maintained a friendship and perhaps kept in touch."

"It'd be nice to think they did," Myeko agreed. "Well, okay then. So that was the first weekend you ever got to help in some way with the fantasy business, huh? Then what was the first fantasy you got really, actually involved in?"

Leslie grinned. "I think that'd have to be the weekend of my birthday that year, when Cornelius and Alphonse kidnapped Tattoo. Father needed someone to temporarily replace him, and for whatever it was worth, that was me." That netted her a round of laughter, and she settled back in her chair. "Now this will probably be a total surprise to you, but I was still fourteen the first time Father allowed me to get so involved with a fantasy as to be gone all weekend, without being checked on. But he had a good reason."

"Really! You hadn't been here a full year yet, and he allowed that?" Christian asked.

Leslie nodded, shifting in her chair. "You see, we were still in shock: November that year was an insane month. First Father marrying Helena, then her death only a few days later, and the very next weekend, Tattoo almost leaving the island because of the cruel lies and manipulations of one very bitter, mean old woman. We were still reeling from Helena's death and then Tattoo went through that. It was almost too much for all of us. So Father decided we needed some kind of distraction, all three of us, and he knew it would have to be a drastic one, so he came up with the idea to have me completely immersed in a fantasy. And let me tell you, it definitely worked."

§ § § - November 17, 1979

They had come off two very strained, emotional weeks; Roarke himself still felt raw from Helena's death. Leslie, though she had gone back to school now and seemed to be doing well enough, was still too quiet and withdrawn, and Tattoo was perceptibly less energetic than he normally was. Too much had happened in too short a time, and he decided some kind of diversion was needed. So when he saw what fantasies were on the docket for this weekend, he smiled. It might be a little drastic, especially in Leslie's case, but this could be just what they needed to regain their enthusiasm for the business they were in.

He knew he was doing the right thing when they went straight to the plane dock with no attempt from Tattoo at making some kind of joke or any talk about Cousin Hugo or Chester the Chimp's latest shenanigans. He saw to it that Tattoo's jacket was buckled, checked that Leslie looked at least politely welcoming, and directed his attention at the plane dock, where as though on cue, a very tall mustachioed man squeezed himself out of the hatch. He was decked out in a huge ten-gallon hat, hand-tooled real leather boots, and expensive clothing topped off with a fringed jacket. Tattoo perked right up: "Look at the king-size cowboy! Who is he?"

"The gentleman behind that big smile is Mr. B.J. Farley, known to his friends as Big Jake. He is also a man after your own heart, Tattoo." Roarke grinned.

"How so?" asked the Frenchman, peering dubiously at him.

"Mr. Farley is one of the world's wealthiest men—uranium," Roarke explained.

Tattoo lit up even more. "What's his fantasy, to, uh…will me all his money?"

"No, Tattoo, that is _your_ fantasy," Roarke said teasingly, and was glad when Leslie let out a genuine laugh, for the first time since Helena's death. "Mr. Farley has journeyed all this way to meet the woman he credits as the inspiration for his success." As he spoke, Farley ducked a low-hanging palm frond, and had to bend and remove his hat before a native girl could hook a lei around his neck. "Her name is Miss Valeska DeMarco."

Both Tattoo and Leslie recognized this name; he was faintly surprised when Leslie exclaimed, "Valeska DeMarco, the prima ballerina?!" At Roarke's nod, she protested, "She was the best dancer in the world, and then she disappeared. I remember because my first-grade teacher in Connecticut was a dancer in her spare time, and Valeska DeMarco was her idol. She actually cried right in front of our whole class when she vanished."

Roarke made an interested sound and nodded. "Eight years ago. You see, just before Miss DeMarco disappeared, Mr. Farley—then a down-and-outer—sneaked into a ballet house to avoid the rain." Farley was now collecting a lei from every girl along the dock, and Leslie wondered if he'd be able to see by the time he stepped onto the grass. "Miss DeMarco was onstage; well, he took one look at her and fell madly in love. He decided then and there to make something of himself so that someday he could meet her, as an equal."

"Boss, you found her?" asked Tattoo. "She's here on Fantasy Island?"

"Indeed she is, my friend. And Mr. Farley is not only going to meet her for a tea I arranged this afternoon, but he is also going to see her dance."

Tattoo grinned, clearly amused. "Boss, something tells me that the cowboy and the lady are gonna mix like oil and water."

Roarke exchanged a conspiratorial smile with him, winked at Leslie, and then introduced the next guest: a woman almost as tall as B.J. Farley, with fluffy pale-blonde curls and an even bigger smile than Farley's. "Ah, Miss Betty Foster, the private investigator, who hails all the way from Toledo, Ohio." Just then Betty Foster tripped on some unseen obstacle and blurted an audible _Whoops_, grabbing her hat.

"Her, a private eye?" blurted Tattoo in disbelief. "Boss, you must be kidding!"

"Oh, I'm quite serious, Tattoo," Roarke assured him.

Tattoo and Leslie traded one highly dubious look, and Leslie grunted, shaking her head. "What's her fantasy?"

"A rather modest one, my child," Roarke said, while Betty Foster dropped her purse and knelt to pick it up, only to have most of its contents spill out. "She simply wishes to crack her first big case. Unfortunately, the rest of the world refuses to cooperate."

"No wonder," Leslie muttered, watching Betty repeatedly drop and retrieve the purse, while a wayward checkbook kept escaping. "Poor thing, she's a born klutz…worse than me!" Then Roarke's words sank in and she stared at him. "What?"

"Yes. You see, Miss Foster was graduated as a private detective more than a year ago, and until now, no one has ever trusted her to handle a case."

"Boss, what school did she go to?" Tattoo wanted to know.

"One of those correspondence schools," Roarke replied. "You know, the kind that advertises on the back of matchbook covers?"

Leslie groaned, and Tattoo gaped at Roarke. "Boss, you're gonna give an amateur like that a real case to crack?"

Roarke merely smiled, then accepted his drink and toasted his new guests; but Leslie had to wonder what kind of weekend this was going to turn into.

They argued about Betty Foster all the way back to the main house, while Roarke listened with great amusement. Tattoo thought the entire weekend was going to be a disaster and wanted to warn Betty's prospective client; Leslie, feeling a kinship because of the klutz factor, said she should be allowed at least one chance to see if she could really solve a case. Roarke smiled at that; it fit what he had in mind, and it was with good nature that he shushed them both as they entered the study. "I have tasks for you," he said. "Tattoo, Miss Foster's client, the contessa, will be arriving on the next plane, and I would like you to meet her there, if you would, please. Leslie, I need you to sort the mail for me as swiftly as you can so that it will be out of the way for the weekend."

"Oh? You mean I'm not working on it the whole weekend?" she asked.

He smiled mysteriously. "You'll see."

Some time later the door popped open and Betty Foster came in, very elegantly clad in a white dress with a thin gold belt, a matching hat trimmed with a wispy black feather, and a cherry-red scarf knotted around her neck. She even had expensive-looking diamonds on the third finger of her left hand. They greeted her and Roarke introduced Leslie; Betty, antsy, asked twice when she was meeting her client and endured Roarke's vague responses before at last wandering into the inner foyer and admiring her reflection in the oval mirror that hung beside the door. Leslie grinned, watching her.

Finally Betty could take no more. "Okay, out with it, Mr. Roarke," she said, coming back into the study. "I mean, I've been here only four hours, and already you've transformed me into a…" She stood waving her hands, hunting for the word.

"A contessa," supplied Roarke.

"Something like that," agreed Betty. "What's going on?"

"Patience, Miss Foster," said Roarke smilingly. "The explanation will be forthcoming shortly." He glanced at Leslie and winked again.

Just then, to Leslie's relief, the door opened and Tattoo entered with a delicate dark-haired young woman beside him. "Here she is, boss."

"Contessa Christina Castranova, may I present Miss Betty Foster…the, uh, detective we discussed?" Roarke said to the newcomer.

The contessa nodded; Betty was noisily overwhelmed. "A bona-fide contessa! Boy, it's a real honor to meet you, Your Contessaship!" Roarke looked gently startled and tossed Betty a look that made Leslie cover her mouth with her hand, trying not to giggle. "Gee, I don't know whether to bow, or…or to kiss your hand, or to shake it!"

Christina laughed softly. "A simple handshake will do," she assured Betty, and they did indeed shake hands. She looked at Roarke then. "Have you filled Miss Foster in?"

"Not as yet, Contessa. Please, sit down, won't you?" Betty and Christina took the two club chairs and Tattoo came around Leslie's chair to stand beside Roarke, who also sat down. "Briefly, Miss Foster, the contessa is here for the reading of her cousin's will. Mr. Duncan Deveraux, the cousin, mysteriously disappeared from aboard his yacht one year ago; the contessa believes he was murdered."

Betty's eyes widened again. "Really!" She turned to Christina. "Why?"

"Duncan was both an expert sailor and swimmer," said Christina. "Look…during a small shipboard party, Duncan merely strolled out on deck—he's never been seen since."

"And you think someone on board that yacht for the party killed him," Betty filled in.

Christina nodded, as if slightly flustered at Betty's eagerness. "Yes, and my fantasy is to find out which one." Betty nodded. "With Mr. Roarke's help, everyone who was at the party is here on the island, for the reading of the will."

"I must interject at this moment that, um…both you ladies should realize that the closer you get to finding the possible murderer, the more your lives will be in danger," said Roarke just then.

"I can't turn back now," said Christina with quiet determination.

Roarke nodded. "And you, Miss Foster? Do you still wish to proceed?"

Betty sat up straight and lifted her chin. "Danger is my business," she announced.

Roarke, Leslie and Tattoo looked at one another with surprise; then Roarke seemed to accept this. "Well—excuse me, Tattoo," he requested as he arose to circle both his assistant and the chair Leslie still sat in. "Well, in that case, I had better explain the rest of your transformation. You see," he said to Betty, "while henceforth, you will be the contessa, the contessa will be your private secretary."

Betty looked doubtful. "But…if it's a reading of the will, there'll be relatives there. I-I-I-I mean…" she sucked in a breath— "won't they know I'm not her?"

"No, I don't think so," said Christina, shaking her head. "You see, I haven't seen any of my relatives since I was a child."

Betty thought about it for a second. "Well, I-I guess it'll work. I guess my only question is, why do we need the masquerade?"

"Yes," Roarke said and turned to Christina. "Perhaps you'd better explain."

Christina frowned. "I received two letters warning me not to show up."

"Meaning," put in Roarke, "the contessa—or in this case, anyone posing as the contessa—" Betty bit her lip, wide-eyed again. "—is liable to meet the same fate as her cousin if she shows up for the reading of the will." Betty swallowed visibly, looking very worried, and Roarke, of course, noticed. "Do you still wish to proceed, Miss Foster?"

Betty swallowed again, let her eyeballs slide from one side of the room to the other, and pushed herself to her feet with one hand. "Well, like I said…danger is my business."

Roarke nodded, looking impressed. "Very well then. We'll give you ladies time to gather your belongings, and then we'll proceed to your lodgings for the weekend."


	7. Chapter 7

§ § § - November 17, 1979

While they were gone, he set up B.J. Farley at his tea with Valeska DeMarco, and to Leslie's surprise, she found herself told to wait with Tattoo at the main house till Roarke returned. Wondering what was going on, she ended up in suspense all the way to their destination—a large old three-story with a stone turret and ornate Queen-Anne woodwork not unlike that of the main house, located well down the northern side of the island with its rear flush with the edge of a low cliff. "Well, here we are."

"I hope I can pass as the contessa and the contessa pass as my secretary," fretted Betty as they got out of the car and climbed the steps to the front porch.

"Don't worry," Tattoo advised. "It will be a piece of cake." Leslie hoped he was right.

"What a creepy place," Betty remarked as they neared the front door.

"Uh, yes…however, Mr. Deveraux's will stipulates that it be read here at Black Cliff Manor, precisely one year to the day of his unfortunate…uh, demise," said Roarke.

Christina, now wearing understated clothing and glasses, was peering at the porch ceiling. "Cousin Duncan used to say that Black Cliff Manor was haunted."

Before anyone could respond to this, there was an ominous creaking behind them, and all five of them slowly turned to watch the door drifting open, apparently all on its own. Betty peered at Roarke and said, "He was kidding, I hope."

"I hope so too," Tattoo concurred.

"Well, Tattoo?" Roarke prompted.

"Well what, boss?" At which Roarke gestured him forward; Tattoo riposted with a _who, me?_ gesture, and Roarke nodded firmly. Reluctantly Tattoo led the way into a large, formal foyer paneled entirely in foreboding-looking dark wood, with a curving staircase leading to the upper floor. As soon as they were all inside, the door creaked slowly shut again, and once more they all turned to watch it.

The click of its latch must have caught someone's attention, for a voice exclaimed, "Ah, Mr. Roarke!" Everyone started, even Roarke, to Leslie's gratification; her guardian sometimes seemed too imperturbable! A dark-haired man with a half-full brandy glass in one hand emerged from a room at the right of the door. "I see you've finally arrived…and which of you two ladies is Cousin Christina?"

Betty rose admirably to the occasion. "I am."

"Charmed," said the strange man, kissing Betty's hand. "I'm Cousin Nicky. They, uh, say we used to play together as children."

"Uh, uh, uh yes…th-that's right," Betty fumbled, trying to look regal and failing miserably, at least in Leslie's uninformed opinion.

"Before black became beautiful, I was the black sheep of the family," Nicky remarked conversationally. "Don't know where that leaves me now." Leslie had to grin at that; Betty smiled, clearly unsure what to say to such a comment. Casting a glance in Christina's direction, Nicky edged in closer to Betty and muttered, "Who's she?"

"Oh…uh, that-that's my private secretary, Fifi—" At the same time Christina interjected, "Lois," and Betty hastily switched tracks, correcting meekly, "Uh, Lois." Leslie had to stifle another giggle while Christina threw a rather doubtful look at Roarke, who smiled.

"Come with me and I'll introduce you to the others," Nicky suggested. "We were just having a drink when you arrived." He retreated into the room he'd come from, and the rest of them sidled along in his wake. The other occupants of the room arose as they went in. "Uh, lady and gentlemen, it's a great pleasure for me to introduce you to Cousin Christina on my immediate left, and her private secretary, Lois. Christina, this is Cousin Sylvia. Next to her we have Samuel Blade, Duncan's former business partner." Betty nodded; Sylvia, too, had a well-filled brandy glass in hand, and looked older than she probably really was, with her wavy dark hair going liberally to gray and her eyes faraway, as though she were on her way to a good bender. Samuel Blade looked cool and reserved. "And last but not least, we have Mr. Algernon Pepperhill, Cousin Duncan's lawyer, and now executor to his estate." Pepperhill was a spare man with a receding hairline; he gave a cool nod, the end of one earpiece of his glasses tucked between his lips.

Betty beamed at them all. "Hi, everybody!" she greeted them in friendly tones.

They seemed shocked; glances were exchanged and Christina blinked. When Betty saw Nicky's amused look, her smile faltered and she cleared her throat, lowering her voice in an attempt to sound more formal and restrained. "What I mean is, how nice to…see you all."

"Drink, Cousin Christina?" Sylvia inquired in a somewhat bored voice. "Uh, or should I address you as Contessa?"

In the same stilted, pseudo-formal voice, Betty replied, "Christina will suit me just fine…and as for the drink, no thanks." Sylvia squinted at her as if unable to understand why anyone would refuse a drink; Leslie saw her brandy glass waving dangerously about.

Thankfully, Roarke intervened. "It has been a very long journey for our two ladies; I suggest they repair to their rooms and freshen up. Uh, Contessa?…Miss, um, Smith…" At which Leslie noticed Algernon Pepperhill staring assessingly at them, and began to get nervous on Betty's behalf. Why had Roarke picked the most common surname in America?

By the time rooms had been chosen for Christina and Betty and they were settling in, there was a storm brewing and Leslie couldn't wait to leave. Tattoo clearly felt the same way. "Boss, I don't like this place," he muttered as they descended the stairs.

"Yes, it is rather eerie, isn't it," Roarke agreed amiably, looking around the foyer with what Leslie was sure was some sort of misplaced admiration.

"Now that we've taken care of the ladies, why don't we get out of here?" Tattoo said.

"Yeah, that's a great idea," Leslie put in, wincing at a rumble of thunder.

"Oh no, no, no…one of us must remain and look after our guests," chided Roarke.

Tattoo and Leslie looked at each other, and in exact unison chorused, "I nominate you," each pointing at the other.

Amused, Roarke said, "Oh, come, come, you two, there is nothing to fear! I would stay myself, but you know that's impossible, what with all my other obligations. Leslie, I think you and Miss Foster established a bit of a rapport back at the main house, and after all, was it not you who argued that she deserved a chance to solve a case?" Leslie gasped, and Tattoo's face relaxed into a wide grin.

"But—I mean—you can't be serious!" she cried.

"I am," Roarke said. "You'll be sharing a room with Miss Foster, and you have a bag waiting for you in there. And if you should need me, why, there's always the telephone."

"Just a phone call away," singsonged Tattoo cheerfully. She shot him a look.

"Tattoo," Roarke said, and he shrugged unrepentantly. "I have faith in you, Leslie."

She looked nervously around the foyer. "Well," she mumbled, "I guess you're right, there's nothing to be scared of."

"Nothing!" Roarke agreed. He glanced around, smiled broadly and exclaimed, "Ah, lovely old place…lovely." With that, he and Tattoo left, leaving Leslie stranded.

"Geez," she muttered. "Nothing to fear, huh? Except a killer, you mean!" At that precise second lightning filled the room and thunder exploded; she let out a shriek of terror and fled up the stairs to the room she was sharing with Betty, desperate for company.

‡ ‡ ‡

It was a quiet, nervous group who gathered in the dining room for the reading of the will; only Algernon Pepperhill seemed at ease. Pepperhill cleared his throat and lifted some papers. "Rather than reading the entire will at this time, I think I'll just summarize it." He glanced around. "That is, if there are no objections." At which more glances were exchanged; Leslie, standing beside Christina's chair, stole a look at her and met the contessa's gaze for a second or two. Sylvia made the only sound, setting her depleted brandy glass on the table with a clank.

Pepperhill nodded. "Very well, then. Um, simply put, Duncan Deveraux left an estate of ten million dollars, to be divided equally among the four of you. The will also stipulates that should any of the beneficiaries die before probate, then the dead person's portion is to be divided among the survivors."

Samuel Blade spoke, catching everyone's surprised attention. "Well then—and I'm speaking theoretically, of course—if there's only one survivor at the time of probate, the entire ten million goes to him." He seemed to belatedly remember the women. "Or her."

"Correct," Pepperhill said, then smiled slightly. "But of course, such an eventuality will never come to pass."

"You mean foul play from one of us," Nicky said, his prematurely jowly face adorned with a careless half-smile. "After all, we're a loving family, right?"

Sylvia gave him a look that screamed cynicism. "Right," she muttered.

"Certainly," Nicky said, as if to say, _there, you see?_

"Positively," agreed Blade in his slightly British-flavored alto.

"Of course," chimed in Betty, with that wide-eyed look of hers.

A boom of thunder accompanied a stronger gust of wind, and the window behind Christina's chair, which evidently hadn't been properly latched, blew open. Sylvia squealed as Christina jumped out of her chair and Leslie ducked aside to avoid the swinging windowpanes. Nicky and Blade ran to secure the window while Sylvia moaned, "I wish I'd stayed home!" While the men were closing the window, Leslie heard the telltale buzzing of a failing power unit; she noticed the one on the wall—oddly, with a clock in front of it that happened to say exactly midnight—sparking ominously. Seconds later, the chandelier flickered and died, leaving the fire as the only light in the room. Sylvia screamed, and while a part of Leslie couldn't quite blame her, she was already a little tired of the woman's overblown reactions.

"Turn on the lights," said either Nicky or Blade, Leslie wasn't sure which.

"Everybody stay calm!" Betty advised.

Leslie, realizing no one else was moving, sighed to herself and groped toward the wall, patting it till she located the switchplate with four old-fashioned buttons on it. She punched each one to no avail. "They don't work," she said.

They began to pile out of the dining room to hunt down candles; Sylvia scuttled after Nicky, while Betty collared Leslie and Christina. "Let's check in the library."

Leslie decided the situation was dicey enough to get hold of Roarke, and told the women she planned to look for a phone. Betty agreed and accompanied Christina into the library, which was even darker than the dining room, to search out candles. Leslie bumped into the wall before reorienting herself and venturing into the black void behind them.

"It's so dark in here, and I'm blind as a bat," Betty complained, then gasped loudly; they heard a quick series of thumps, and the floor vibrated slightly. Leslie rolled her eyes to herself, realizing she must have tripped on something and hit the floor. She began patting the surface of every piece of furniture she came up against.

"Oh—hey, I-I found some matches," Christina called.

There were more thumping sounds, then another gasp and a squawk from Betty, and the sound of something ceramic shattering onto the floor. "What was that?" Leslie cried.

"It's only me," Betty groaned, and Leslie followed the sound of her voice, unable to locate a telephone anywhere. Just as her eyes finally adjusted and a flash of lightning helped her orient herself, Betty turned to her with something in her hands. "I have some good news and some bad news," she said in a half-whisper.

"What's the good news?" Leslie asked, figuring they could use some.

Betty lifted the object in her hands. "The good news is, I found the phone." Heartened, Leslie grabbed the receiver; but before she could make another move, Betty went on, "The bad news is…" She again lifted one hand. "The wire's been cut!"

Leslie sighed heavily. "Maybe I should go get Mr. Roarke. This is getting crazy." Before Betty could protest, she groped her way out to the foyer and pulled open the door, only to find herself fighting against the fast-rising wind. There was no way she was going out into that storm! It took her a couple of minutes to get the door shut again—and just as she did, there was a loud bang that made her cry out and freeze with her back against the door.

People began emerging from the library and the curving staircase. "That was a gunshot," Betty exclaimed.

"Where did it come from?" inquired Samuel Blade from the steps.

"From in there, I think," squeaked Leslie, pointing a shaking hand toward the dining room they had abandoned earlier.

Slowly the entire group crept into the room; then lightning illuminated the scene and Sylvia, predictably, screamed. Algernon Pepperhill was slumped over in the chair where he had been reading the will earlier, his eyes closed, his body limp.

Betty stole over to him, felt for a pulse, then raised horrified eyes. "He's dead!"

More lightning showed that the table was empty. "The will is gone," Nicky confirmed, and at this Christina and Leslie looked at each other again. Leslie had the feeling she was trapped in a very bad imitation of a Sherlock Holmes case.

Nicky and Blade finally seemed to recover, and together they gathered Pepperhill's body out of the chair and carted him out of the room through a curtained doorway to who knew where. Leslie supposed the house had its own morgue; at any rate, that wouldn't surprise her. Betty sighed, watching them go. "Well, we do seem to have a killer amongst us." Blade and Nicky came back just as she concluded, "The question is, who?"

"Why doesn't someone call the police?" Sylvia whined in despair.

"Because the phone line's been cut," said Leslie. "I tried to call Mr. Roarke earlier and that's when we found out."

"And in this storm, nobody can make it down the cliff for help," added Nicky.

"Let's face it, folks…we're stuck," said Betty starkly.

"The contessa's right," Blade ventured. "I suggest we all retire to our rooms and lock the doors until morning. Hopefully, the storm will pass by then. Good night." He left.

"Guess he's right," mused Nicky and followed him; Sylvia scurried after him like a mouse, still carrying the brandy glass she'd been nursing all night and insisting he wait for her. Betty, Christina and Leslie looked at each other.

Betty was indignant. "A killer on the loose, and they're going to bed!"

"What're we gonna do?" Leslie asked, hoping they'd be following suit.

"Lock the contessa in her room, and then have a look around," Betty said firmly, heading out without waiting for a reply. Leslie and Christina looked at each other again, then joined hands and hurried out after Betty. At least somebody was taking charge around this place, Leslie thought, feeling a little better from that alone.

It was nearing two in the morning by Betty's watch, and Leslie was yawning every five minutes, when Betty decided she had seen all she needed to, and they made their way up to their shared guest room. Betty peered in, ascertained that all was clear, and ushered Leslie inside. "What happens now?" the sleepy teenager queried through another yawn.

Betty headed for a round table across the room. "Well, with mayhem in the air, I just might need an equalizer," she said, picking up the purse she had dropped so much at the plane dock that morning. Leslie wandered to the window and cautiously checked on the weather, hoping it would have abated enough to let her sleep.

Then Betty gasped softly and she turned around. "What's wrong?"

"My gun!" Betty exclaimed. "I had it in my purse…somebody must have stolen it!" Leslie stared at her in amazement as she sank dejectedly onto the bed. "I'm some kind of detective—I even get my own gun ripped off!"

Leslie felt sorry for her and edged around the bed, offering a smile. "Don't worry. You still have me." She didn't bother adding, _for whatever that's worth!_

Betty's smile was grateful enough to make her glad she'd spoken. "Thanks, Leslie." She sighed. "Gee, I guess I'm blowing it. All my life I wanted to be a detective. I was a real Nancy Drew freak—I read every one of her books at least six times." Leslie grinned, remembering her younger days reading Nancy Drew mysteries. "And I did so much to prepare myself. I even took karate lessons."

Leslie was impressed. "Wow, you know karate?"

"First in my class," Betty said, and they traded smiles. Then she tilted her head at Leslie, as if for guidance. "What do you think I ought to do, Leslie?"

Leslie groped for some sort of intelligent response. "Um…" Then something clicked in her head—maybe some vestigial memory of one of those Nancy Drew books. "Well, first you find the will, and then go get the killer," she offered hopefully.

To her surprise, Betty said flatly, "That's ridiculous."

Leslie reared back, a little offended. "It is? Why?"

"Because I've got the will," Betty said. Leslie's mouth dropped while she pulled some papers out of the purse she'd slung aside. "I glommed onto it when the lights went out."

"What for?" was all Leslie could think to say.

"To read. Always check the fine print—that's chapter three of my correspondence course." With that, she began to go through the will while Leslie looked on, before a huge yawn suddenly overtook Leslie without warning. Betty looked up at her and smiled. "You'd better get some sleep," she advised.

"Yeah, I think you're right. Well, good night," Leslie murmured, and gathered her duffel bag off the cot that had been set up for her, to change in the bathroom and brush her teeth. She paused at the door, caught Betty's maternal smile, and for just a second missed her mother desperately. Smiling quickly back, she ducked out.

She was just opening the bathroom door after finishing, only to see a figure sneaking toward the staircase; Leslie froze and watched through the crack between the door and the jamb, recognizing Sylvia. She hooked the strap of her bag—the same one she'd brought from Susanville months before—securely over her head so it looped from one shoulder down to her other side; then she stole after Sylvia, watching the woman slipping down the stairs with surprising dexterity for one who had been drinking so devotedly all evening long.

Leslie paused in a shadow a few steps down and crouched behind the railing, watching Sylvia creep into the room where Pepperhill had been shot and disappear. The house, in spite of the growling storm, was quiet enough that she clearly heard Sylvia mutter, "The will must be here somewhere." _Hah,_ Leslie thought, smirking to herself, and eased down a few more steps, till she hit the inevitable creaky tread. Without thinking, she whispered, "Shh," at it, as if the tread would heed her and promise to be quiet from now on.

When nothing happened, she stole down the rest of the steps and ventured into the dining room. It was dark and she could see very little, except when lightning flickered in the distance now and then. She paused in the middle of the floor, trying to get her bearings and decide what to do—and then behind her she heard a muted, but distinct, thump.

She whirled around, but nobody was there. Slowly Leslie pirouetted on one toe, scanning the room, only to realize she was alone—and unprotected at that. Maybe she'd better let Betty in on what she'd seen. She rushed up the stairs and let herself into the room, only to see that Betty was already asleep. With a sigh, she crawled onto the cot and tugged the covers over her shoulder, so tired now that she had no trouble dozing off.


	8. Chapter 8

§ § § - November 18, 1979

Breakfast was scanty, for a place as vast as this; Leslie supposed it was because the manor had been opened solely for the gathering of the beneficiaries, and since evidently none of them knew how to cook, it was everybody for himself. The cabinets were almost completely empty except for some aging cans missing their labels; she didn't trust these, and in the end raided a loaf of bread someone had brought and managed to find half a stick of butter sitting on a counter. A teakettle steamed, but she wasn't a tea drinker and ended up settling—to her pure disgust—for the remains of a bottle of wine she was sure belonged to Sylvia. It was the only thing she could stomach; the faucets spat water, but it was as rusty as what had come out of the bathroom tap the night before. She'd had to forgo rinsing her mouth after brushing her teeth. She wondered where the water for the tea had come from.

So with buttered bread and two fingers' worth of a glass of wine as her morning re-past, she went out looking for Betty and eventually located her in their shared room, along with Christina. "Oh, there you are," said Betty. She scrabbled in her purse and produced a breakfast bar, holding it out to her. "I bet you'd like one of these."

"Oh, would I—thanks!" Leslie exclaimed. "I just ate bread and butter and drank some of Sylvia's wine…yuck!" Betty and Christina both laughed, and she grinned sheepishly and settled on the bed, unwrapping the bar. "What's happening?"

"Well, seems everybody's gone except Nicky," said Betty. "He told me Sylvia's disappeared, and Blade isn't back from checking road conditions."

"Oh…I knew Sylvia was gone," said Leslie, and quickly recounted what she had seen just before going to bed. Again Betty and Christina looked at each other.

"Well, that's interesting," Betty muttered. "Anyway, I don't really know what else we can do. Do you two have any ideas?"

"Actually, I was just thinking—" Christina began, when they all heard a short, sharp yell that was silenced as quickly as it had cropped up. Quiet reigned while they gawked at one another, frozen in mid-move.

Finally Christina breathed, "That sounded like Nicky."

"We'd better go look," Betty decided. "Leslie, you stay here and finish that." Leslie was only too happy to agree, and wished them luck as they left.

She had no shame about taking her time eating the breakfast bar, even waved at Betty and Christina as they passed the doorway to investigate downstairs. Thunder rumbled out-side as she finished off the last bite, and for lack of a napkin found herself licking her fingers. She then changed out of her nightclothes, repacking her duffel just as Betty burst into the room. Leslie looked up. "Where's the contessa?"

"I don't know," Betty wailed. "We went downstairs, and one minute she was beside me…and then I told her to take my hand, and nothing happened, and I looked around and she was gone! I think you and I are the only ones left in this house!"

Leslie dropped onto the cot and sighed. "Lucky us," she grumbled. "Now what?"

"Well, staying together doesn't work, splitting up doesn't matter…we might as well start searching again. You look around up here and I'll go downstairs."

"What're we looking for?" Leslie asked.

Betty thought for a moment. "Well…see if you can find any hidden doors or…or secret trick fireplaces or bookcases. Who knows, maybe there's a false wall behind the shower stall. Just look for stuff like that."

This resulted in Leslie prowling through one richly appointed bedroom after another, pushing on every inch of wall, nudging every knickknack on every fireplace mantel, pulling random books out of bookcases—all to no avail whatsoever. The search rapidly grew tedious, but she stuck to it despite her escalating boredom, till she had finally exhausted all the possibilities and decided to join Betty downstairs.

Betty was in the foyer looking as frustrated as Leslie felt. "Any news of the contessa?" Leslie asked as she hurried down.

"No," groaned Betty and threw her hands in the air. "It's crazy! She-she can't have vanished into thin air! What's happening here? Where is everybody? Where have they all gone?" As she spoke, she grabbed Leslie's hand and pulled her into the dining room, as if she had seen something in there she needed to investigate.

"I don't know," Leslie said with conviction, "but I tell you what, I think we oughta get out of here before we disappear too."

Frantically Betty protested, "No, Leslie, we can't. I'll never be a private eye if I run away from my first case." Leslie had to concede to the truth of this, but she had no idea what to say; fortunately there was no need, for Betty straightened and ordered, "Follow me."

"Where to?" asked Leslie blankly.

Before Betty could answer, the floor gave way underneath them and they both dropped like boulders, hurtling down a wide wooden chute, both screaming all the way, till they tumbled to a halt in a pile of hay. "Contessa!" a voice exclaimed.

Betty and Leslie sat up and shook off their dazes, only to be shocked at the sight of a huge cage on the opposite wall, containing all the missing beneficiaries—Blade, Sylvia, Nicky and Christina. "What're you doing in that?" Leslie exclaimed.

"Turn around and you'll find out," said Nicky dryly, and Leslie and Betty shared one uneasy glance before a footfall sounded behind them and they scrambled around. Stepping from the shadows was none other than Algernon Pepperhill.

"Hey," Leslie blurted, "you were supposed to be dead!"

"A ruse, young lady," Pepperhill said, sauntering toward them, pointing a gun at them. "I faked my own murder so I could be free to imprison the real contessa, Mr. Blade, Miss Deveraux and her brother."

Betty's face took on an indignant look. "That's my gun you have!"

Pepperhill just glanced at it; Leslie had to ask. "Wh-what're you gonna do with it?"

"First, I'm going to cage you up with the others." Pepperhill strolled around them, never taking his eyes off them, gun raised. "Second—you, uh, you see that door there?" They looked where he indicated; there was a huge, thick stone door whose outline was barely visible in the foundation wall. "It holds back the sea. When I open it at high tide, this entire chamber will be flooded. And when the tide recedes, I'll make sure your bodies are washed out to sea and lost forever." Leslie grabbed Betty's hand, and they looked at each other again. "Just as Duncan Deveraux's body was when I pushed him off his yacht." Everyone looked at one another; no one dared speak, and the only sound was a steady, rapid dripping from somewhere in the room, as though the sea were slowly leaking in. Then Pepperhill snarled at them, _"Move it!"_ and they were forced to retreat toward the cage.

Leslie's mind was racing, mostly with thoughts of Roarke and Tattoo, what they'd think when they figured out what had happened, and whether they'd discover it was all Pepperhill's doing; and at the same time she couldn't figure out how Pepperhill could be so heartless as to murder an innocent fourteen-year-old along with everyone else. Then Betty scattered her ruminations. "Uh…uh…just in case you're interested, Mr. Pepperhill," she blurted at a hundred miles an hour, "I know why you're doing this."

Pepperhill looked amused. "Really? Well then, let's hear your theory."

"It's not a theory, it's fact. I read the will last night—all of the fine print."

Pepperhill's expression never wavered. "So you're the one who stole the will."

Betty turned to Leslie, whose face was a mask of questions. "There's a special proviso. If all of the heirs are dead, the entire estate goes to his faithful friend, lawyer and business manager." She shot Pepperhill a fulminating look.

His face remained unchanged, but his voice sounded a little smug. "Namely me," he filled in, smiling for a brief second.

"Mr. Pepperhill, I arrest you for the murder of Duncan Deveraux!" Betty announced.

Even Leslie stared at her in disbelief, while Algernon Pepperhill threw his head back and burst out laughing. Looking really angry for the first time, Betty advanced on him; he saw her coming and raised the gun again. "Stand back or I'll shoot!"

"Be careful, Betty," Christina warned from inside the cage.

But Betty was on a roll. "Go ahead and shoot," she taunted. "That gun is loaded with blanks." When Pepperhill looked at it as if he could see through it to ascertain whether she was bluffing, she took advantage of his second of distraction and swiftly kicked the gun out of his hand. That in turn angered Pepperhill, and the next second, the two of them had gotten into an old-fashioned fight, kicking and punching, ducking behind ancient furniture and other odds and ends that sustained damage as payment for their fleeting protection, grunting and trying to get the advantage. Those in the cage kept cheering Betty on; Leslie gripped the bars and watched, well aware that Betty had to come through or they were all dead. If only Betty could get into position to work a little of her karate skill on that creep…

Pepperhill tripped Betty up and she landed on her back on the floor; but it turned out to be perfect for her, because when he advanced on her, she half sat up, grabbed him and neatly flipped him right over her head. He did a beautiful somersault and landed smack atop his head, collapsing to the floor, out cold.

They hovered for a moment, unsure of Pepperhill's condition, but he didn't move, and it finally sank in that he was unconscious. "You did it!" Leslie yelled, and ran out to give the ecstatic Betty a congratulatory hug, so relieved was she. The beneficiaries applauded, and both Leslie and Betty took comical bows, laughing along with them.

‡ ‡ ‡

About three hours later Leslie was back home, taking turns with Betty relating all that had happened that weekend. Tattoo looked as if he were going to explode with laughter when he heard about the wine; Roarke shook his head. "Now really, Leslie," he said.

"Well, I hate tea, and all the water in the pipes was rusty, and there wasn't anything else," she protested. "Why do you think I begged Mana'olana for that giant soda first thing when I got in here?"

"There was tea?" Tattoo said, and she nodded. "Where'd they get water for tea if it was rusty?"

"How should I know?" Leslie demanded, and he shrugged.

Roarke laughed. "Well, there's nothing to be done about it now. I asked several times if the family wanted provisions, but they seemed convinced that they could simply call and order takeout, so I left things as they stood. I am terribly sorry." He straightened and smiled at Betty. "It appears your fantasy was a success, Miss Foster."

"Yup," she said and beamed. "My first real case. I can't thank you enough for everything, Mr. Roarke." She glanced down at herself. "I just didn't know it was going to be so exhausting. I hope you don't mind if I head for my bungalow."

"Not at all, not at all," Roarke assured her, and smiled, watching her depart. Then he studied Leslie. "Well, we have a tank to collect."

She stared at him. "A _tank?_ What kind of tank, a scuba tank? A fish tank?"

"An army tank," Tattoo said and smirked. "Come on, this'll be fun."

He and Roarke filled her in on the way into town. It seemed that Big Jake Farley's real fantasy was to marry Valeska DeMarco, but she had refused to see anyone after her comeback dance performance ignominiously ended in an ungraceful collapse onstage when her muscles failed. Word had come from Valeska's coach and dearest friend, Selena, that Valeska now planned to leave the island with a longtime suitor, one Todd Sinclair from Boston; and Farley was naturally desperate to prevent this.

"And we're using a tank to stop him?" Leslie asked, not getting the connection. "How in the world is that supposed to work?"

"Watch," Roarke said. She shrugged and loitered beside him in the alley while Tattoo climbed into the tank and he and Farley made themselves comfortable inside. The street on which the theater was located seemed deserted for some reason; Leslie supposed Roarke had sent everyone elsewhere for a while.

Then they heard a car approach and Roarke glanced around the corner; it was a dark limo. He signaled at the tank, and it immediately rumbled into the street, where it stopped, blocking both sides of the road. The limo pulled up in front of it and a white-haired man with a mustache popped out of the backseat, protesting. A short argument ensued before the strains of a lively but elegant musical composition emanated from the theater.

Valeska DeMarco sat up and stared out the back window; Roarke went over to confer with her, then escorted her from the car and watched her disappear inside. After this, there was a long wait; Leslie ended up tapping her foot to the music, and finally Sinclair muttered something objectionable and stalked into the building after her. "Sheesh," Leslie groaned, "what's taking so long?"

She got her answer about thirty seconds later when Sinclair stumbled out of the building, wearing a broken bass drum around his torso. Roarke, Leslie and Tattoo gaped at him; then Roarke murmured an excuse and went into the theater himself. Tattoo climbed out of the tank and started to apologize, but Sinclair just waved him off and worked his way out of the drum, then demanded to be taken to the plane then and there.

A few minutes later Valeska, Selena and Farley emerged; the cowboy and the dancer were arm in arm, and Leslie grinned. "Well, good," she said.

"Good?" repeated Tattoo with interest. "Why do you say that?"

"Sinclair's no Bostonian," she scoffed. "He doesn't even have the right accent!" Tattoo gave her a look, then burst out laughing.

§ § § - November 19, 1979

"Well, Mr. Roarke, I guess I'm not cut out to be a detective," Betty Foster admitted reluctantly Monday morning. Leslie blinked at her in amazement.

"Oh, perhaps you're being too hard on yourself, Miss Foster," Roarke said.

"No I'm not. I mean, when a girl can't even hold onto her own gun, it's time to hang it up. But at least I can get my old job back." She seemed almost happy about it.

"What was your old job?" asked Leslie with interest.

"I was a counter girl at a fast-food franchise called the Hippity Hot Dog," said Betty.

Nicky sauntered up from behind them while Leslie pondered the fact that she'd never heard of the place. "Well, isn't that a coincidence. My brother Duncan was majority stock-holder in Hippity Hot Dog." On Betty's surprised reaction, he went on, "That's right, and I'll be taking over the company now. Y'know, the trouble is, I need someone with experience to help me learn the ropes…um, would you be interested?" He looked at Betty, who hesitated, and suggested, "We could talk it over in the air." She agreed, and off they went to the plane together, leaving their hosts grinning broadly.

The second rover discharged Selena, Valeska and a radiant B.J. Farley; Roarke greeted them with a question. "Where are the two of you headed, if I may ask?"

"To eight 'n' plum," Farley said, beaming.

Their hosts looked at one another. "Eight and plum?" repeated Roarke blankly.

Valeska grinned. "That's eight miles outside of Dallas," she drawled, "and plum into the most beautiful countryside you have ever laid your eyes on!" Chuckling, they each shook hands with Selena; Leslie cast a squinty glance at Valeska and wondered where that Texas accent had suddenly come from. She wanted to say something about Todd Sinclair's non-existent Boston pedigree, but decided not to bother and to save it to tell her friends about later on. Selena, meantime, bid Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie farewell, pausing when Big Jake stepped up to Roarke.

"Thanks, Mr. Roarke, for makin' my fantasy last the rest of my life. Y'know somethin'?" He gave Roarke a friendly clout in the upper arm. "You're a good ol' boy!"

Roarke smiled, a little dubiously, and said, "Thank you, Mr. Farley."

"See ya later, Tattoo," Farley added, clubbing him in the arm as he strode by; Leslie ducked back before the big Texan could clip her one too. Tattoo clutched his arm, rubbing the spot where Big Jake had cuffed him.

"Bet I have a bruise there tomorrow," he muttered. But Leslie noticed that he still managed to wave a final goodbye at their departing guests. "Those people from Texas have some strange expressions. Are they all like that?"

Leslie flipped her palms skyward. "Don't ask me. I've never been to Texas."

"Oh." Tattoo stared at her as if he didn't know whether to believe her, and Roarke let out a laugh.

"Enough," he said. "You need to get off to school, Leslie, and Tattoo, I have quite a list of errands for you to run." Tattoo sighed and headed off for the car that had pulled around to pick them up, with Leslie's schoolbooks and purse in the backseat. She paused to address her guardian, half in and half out of the car.

"How do you think I did, Mr. Roarke?" she asked.

He smiled at her. "I think you performed admirably, young lady," he said with an affectionate smile. "You even refrained from asking Miss DeMarco for her autograph."

Leslie turned bright red, enough that he noticed. "Well…" she mumbled. "Actually, she gave it to me last night right after she and Mr. Farley and Selena had supper with us."

Roarke shook his head. "Leslie, Leslie," he chided, but she could see the smile tugging at his lips. "Off to school with you." She grinned and settled herself into the car.

§ § § - June 25, 2008

Quite a lot of laughter had passed through, primarily at the Texan, before the story was over, but Leslie had generated enough mirth with her own tale to feel rather pleased with herself. "Well," she said, "anyone have another one in mind?"

"You're enjoying this," Carl Johan remarked in surprise. "You and Mr. Roarke have to do an insane amount of talking in describing these incidents, but you don't seem to mind."

"Well, you're enjoying it too," Leslie pointed out with a grin, "so everybody wins, right?" Carl Johan chuckled and agreed, and she glanced around.

"You know what? I always wondered about the property that Russell St. Anthony willed to me," Maureen said slowly. "I remember that for years there was an old, boarded-up, tumbledown chateau there, even before I met St. Anthony and he bought the place and left it to me in his will…and there was that time you ended up meeting Teppo's ghost in the cellar lab in there." Leslie and Christian both noticed the glances his siblings and their spouses threw her, and she smiled. Oblivious, Maureen mused on: "For that matter, I happen to recall that haughty British boy who broke in to retrieve what he insisted was an old family heirloom of some sort, and we had to go in after him without telling Mr. Roarke." Surprised looks rounded the room and she blinked, sitting up straight. "Oops…did I say something I shouldn't have?"

Leslie laughed. "I came clean to Father a few years ago, finally, so don't worry about it. I know what you're talking about. It was quite a weekend. I wasn't involved with the fantasy that took place in the chateau, but I heard enough about it that it made me glad I wasn't allowed to have any hand in it."

"If you weren't involved in that fantasy, which one were you involved in?" Tabitha asked. "Let's face it, I didn't have the privilege of eating lunch with you in high school, so all these stories are completely new to me."

"Well then, in that case, enjoy," offered Roarke whimsically, and on the laughter, he and Leslie settled down for some more narration.


	9. Chapter 9

§ § § - February 7, 1981

Leslie got her first sense of something dire when Roarke's expression shifted from welcoming to something like a combination of disbelief, resignation and disapproval. "So she came after all," he murmured, half to himself, watching the slender woman with a shiny cap of dark hair and a cheerfully brisk mien step out onto the dock.

"Who is she, boss?" Tattoo asked.

"Miss Vicky Lee, a very capable journalist, whose fantasy is to spend the weekend as a guest of the famous silent-film star Claude Duncan. Next to Valentino, he was the greatest matinee idol of his day."

"Is he the same Claude Duncan who built a chateau here on Fantasy Island?" asked Tattoo, looking slightly skeptical.

"The very same, Tattoo, and he still lives there, alone," Roarke said.

"Get out of here," scoffed Leslie. "If he was a rival for Rudolph Valentino, he must be way past ninety by now. For that matter, he ought to be dead."

Roarke smiled wryly. "People have been known to live past their centenary birthdays, Leslie," he pointed out, and she shrugged. "Although you're correct; I believe Claude Duncan was born in 1883."

"If he's so old, why should a beautiful young lady want to go there?" asked Tattoo.

"Miss Lee plans to write a biography of her beloved grandmother, the beautiful and tragic actress Becky Lee."

"Oh, I see—Claude Duncan knew Becky, right?" prompted Tattoo.

"Very well indeed, Tattoo; they starred together in several films—classics now—and in real life, they became lovers. And then…" Roarke stared at Vicky Lee, his eyes losing focus. "Becky Lee died a most mysterious death. And I am very much afraid that Miss Lee's probing into the past may place her in a present danger more frightening than she can imagine."

Leslie smiled. "Well, isn't probing what journalists do best?"

Roarke flicked her a glance that made her smile die, and she hunched her shoulders, letting her gaze slide back to the dock. This time a whole group of people emerged from the plane's hatch one by one, all of them silent and looking grim, splitting into two distinct camps as they filed down the dock and into the clearing. "Boss, they look like the Hatfields and the McCoys," Tattoo remarked.

Roarke grinned, relieving Leslie. "Close, Tattoo, close. The very attractive young lady is Miss Ruthanne MacAllister." This was the fresh-faced, dark-eyed blonde in front. "With her are her two brothers, Amos—" a tall pale-blond young man who took a few moments to ogle the native girls— "and Otis—" a grim light-brown-haired man who seemed focused on one thing only— "and their aunt, Miss Chlora MacAllister, leader of the MacAllister clan." The woman in question, somewhere in her late forties or early fifties with a pageboy haircut and thin, gloomy features, waved away the offer of a drink and stepped down to join her niece and nephews.

"What about the other bunch?" inquired Tattoo.

"The young man is Mr. R.J. Scoggins," said Roarke, indicating a denim-clad, smiling black-haired guy who tipped his hat at the native girls. "His brother, Bobby Joe, and their uncle, Mr. Norris Scoggins, leader of their clan." Both Bobby Joe and Norris looked as grim as Otis MacAllister, peering suspiciously around them as if expecting more MacAllisters to pop out of the bushes and gun them down or some such thing. "They are all from Eagle Mountain, Tennessee, and the two clans have a long history of feuding and bloodshed. The two clan leaders, Miss Chlora MacAllister and Mr. Norris Scoggins, have both requested the same fantasy."

"Which would be what?" Leslie asked with interest.

"That their respective clans be the first to find a legendary homemade whiskey called White Lightning, and acquire exclusive rights to the recipe for this wondrous nectar."

Tattoo was scowling in perplexity. "But boss, how can you give the same fantasy to both of them?"

"As usual, Tattoo, in your most penetrating manner," said Roarke, making Tattoo smirk with self-satisfaction, "you have placed your finger on the heart of a most dangerous and explosive situation."

The penultimate word caught Leslie's attention. "I hope that's not _literally_ explosive," she hinted direly, for which all she got was a little smile from Roarke before his drink arrived and he toasted their latest guests in welcome.

Back at the main house, Leslie fielded a phone call, very much to her surprise; her friends all knew perfectly well that she spent all weekend working, and if they happened to see one another, it was always whenever Leslie was out and about for whatever reason. She took the receiver from Roarke when he handed it to her, and nodded when he added, "Make it short if you can, please, Leslie."

"Okay. Hello?" she spoke into the phone.

"Hi, it's me, Myeko. I know I'm probably intruding, but—sorry, I mean, I just have to know. I heard something about that journalist Vicky Lee coming to the island to do an interview or something with Claude Duncan, the old silent-movie star. Is it true?"

Leslie cast an uncertain glance in Roarke's direction; he and Tattoo were both organizing paperwork lying on the desk so that she could help tackle it later, but she knew that neither was so absorbed that he wasn't listening. "Well…yeah, but why do you want to know? I mean…I didn't even know about that."

"Oh, you know me—drama classes, ancient movies…it's just funny 'cause Mom and I saw this doddery old silent thing on late-night TV last night, and we kept laughing because it just looked so funny. At the end there was an interview with Vicky Lee, and she said she was making a trip here in early February to talk to Claude Duncan for some book she's planning to write. This is early February, so…"

Leslie snickered loudly, unable to help herself. "Yeah, okay, it's true, but geez—don't tell anyone, okay? She just got here, and besides, she has a fantasy—so remember, I can't tell you anything right now. Rules are rules."

"Oh, I know," Myeko said airily, "and I promise I'll wait till Monday for the details. But man—is Claude Duncan really still alive? He must be a thousand years old by now."

"No, but according to Mr. Roarke, he's something like 97 or 98," said Leslie, and heard her friend whistle on the other end. "Tattoo said he built a chateau on the island, but I don't know where it is." She caught a warning look from Roarke then and cleared her throat. "Um, I have to go. I'm getting the eagle eye."

"Okay. Talk to ya later," said Myeko amiably, and Leslie said goodbye and hung up.

"Eagle eye?" Roarke repeated, brows raised.

Leslie shrugged. "Well, I could've said the hairy eyeball, but that doesn't sound very dignified, does it?" At that Tattoo laughed, and Roarke threw him a squelching look, but Leslie knew he wasn't really angry. "So Mr. Roarke, where's the chateau?"

"It's in the Enclave, but well removed from it," Roarke said. "You'll see once we arrive there with Miss Lee. Excuse me, I'd better phone her and see if she's ready."

Within half an hour they were on their way to the chateau with Vicky Lee in tow; as she often did when there was time to kill while taking guests to some other part of the island, Leslie found herself talking a bit about how she had come to be Roarke's ward, how she liked living here and what she did to help her guardian. When that petered out, Roarke asked about Vicky's career and family; Vicky was single and an only child, it turned out, and her elderly parents still lived in the same house where she had grown up. "I've combed my poor father's memory I don't know how many times for stories about my grandmother," she said, laughing. "The more I heard, the more fascinating she sounded."

"I'm sure," Roarke agreed, turning into the lane that led into the Enclave where the island's mansions had been built. There were about ten or twelve of them, widely spaced because of their extensive grounds, dotting both sides of the lane. Leslie kept expecting the car to turn into one or another driveway, but about halfway up, Roarke instead piloted the rover down a side lane, wide enough for only one car. "Wow," she said, "I didn't know this was here. I guess for some reason I never saw it."

"Claude Duncan built his chateau at the far end of this lane," said Roarke. Conversation dropped off after that while the odometer clicked off almost exactly two miles and Leslie and Vicky peered into the jungle that lined both sides.

"This is my grandmother, Becky Lee, as she appeared in the movie classic _Love and Desire_," Vicky explained, removing a laminated movie poster from her bag and handing it up front to Tattoo. He unrolled it, and Leslie peered over his shoulder at the two figures drawn in pastel chalks against a lavender-gray background. Across the top was the legend, "Together for the first time" in quotation marks, with each actor's name in a corner. Leslie could see that the portrait of Becky Lee bore some superficial resemblance to her granddaughter; Vicky had certainly inherited Becky's dark hair.

"It was a tragedy she died so young," remarked Roarke gravely.

"Well, I never knew her, of course, but my parents have told me all about her," Vicky reminded him. "That's why I have to know why she died—why?"

"I understand how you feel, Miss Lee," Roarke said. "Obviously, you did not get my telegram advising you against coming."

"Oh, I got it all right, Mr. Roarke," Vicky said. "But what can possibly be dangerous about an octogenarian former movie actor?"

"Nonagenarian, actually," ventured Leslie, catching Vicky's surprised look; she tossed Roarke a glance, and he nodded confirmation.

Tattoo twisted around from the front seat. "No matter how old he is, he's more than just that, Miss Lee."

"Tattoo is right," said Roarke. "There is a great deal you don't know about Mr. Duncan, and not just his age. For instance, he has lived in total seclusion for the last fifty years."

"Then it's about time he had a visitor," said Vicky, refusing to be dissuaded. "Besides, I already sent him a letter saying I was coming."

Roarke threw her an alarmed look before his features settled into harder lines. "I could forbid you to go near his chateau, Miss Lee," he said darkly. "But as you can see, I haven't; therefore, I am granting you your fantasy."

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Roarke. And you won't have to worry about me—I can take care of myself," Vicky said confidently.

"I sincerely hope so, Miss Lee," was all Roarke had to say to that. Vicky looked a bit puzzled, but shrugged it off and peered ahead of them.

They came unexpectedly into a huge swath of cleared, landscaped territory that straddled both sides of the lane. To the left, there was a pretty, if untended, meadow, from the top of which the ocean was visible in the distance. On the right, the north side, the land sloped upward, the heavy woods split by a well-tended paved driveway that curved gently up to a wall with an iron gate in it. Leslie couldn't fathom that: if Claude Duncan never went anywhere, why bother paving the drive? She shook her head to herself.

The chateau itself was enormous, easily the biggest structure in the Enclave. "All that for just one person?" Leslie muttered, astounded. Roarke only smiled at her.

The car stopped and he stepped out, helping Vicky out after him. "You may encounter certain…phenomena here which will assuredly force you to call upon all of your reserve of courage," Roarke informed her quietly, giving her her bag. "Good luck, Miss Lee."

"Thank you," she replied, and Roarke got back into the car, which backed out of the way. Leslie watched Vicky as long as she could, while the journalist approached the tall iron bars at the entry and pushed open the gate in the middle. The car rounded a curve then and swallowed Vicky Lee from her view.

Then Leslie remembered something she had caught a quick glimpse of inside the gate, just before the car had begun moving. "Mr. Roarke," she ventured, and when she had his attention, said, "I saw some kind of statue in there, and I could swear it was looking right at me—and with glowing red eyes, too! What _is_ that thing?"

Roarke gave her a sharp look, studied her closely, and asked in a low, intense voice, "Will you please describe that statue to me as closely as you can?"

"I didn't see it for very long," Leslie admitted, "but I thought it was really ugly. It was posing like this." She thought for a second, then lifted both arms almost over her head in what felt to her like a contrived ballet pose. "I think it was standing on four legs, and it had this nasty devilish-looking face. And I think it had a beard, or maybe a little pointed chin, I'm not sure which."

"Did you see whether it had horns?" Roarke asked.

"No, I couldn't tell," she said.

He nodded a couple of times and settled back in the seat. "I see. Unless I miss my guess, that was a statue of the Greek god Pan. Half man, half goat."

"And all hideous," injected Leslie, which got her a laugh from Roarke. "I hope the other fantasy doesn't have that kind of weird mythology in it."

"The Scoggins-MacAllister fantasy carries its own dangers," Roarke observed with some amusement, "but I daresay they are of a much more earthly sort. I have quite a weekend planned for those two clans."

When they finally got back to the main house, they were just in time to see the MacAllister and Scoggins clans crossing the lane toward the porch, once again in two distinct groups, each warily eyeing the other. Roarke ushered Leslie and Tattoo out of the car and nodded to the clan leaders on the way in; Leslie, at almost sixteen nearly fully grown, found herself the uncomfortable target of several sets of young male eyes. She fastened her gaze stubbornly to the back of Roarke's white suit coat all the way into the study.

Once inside, Leslie realized that only the leaders, Norris Scoggins and Chlora MacAllister, along with her niece Ruthanne and his nephew R.J., had actually come in with them. Roarke suggested everyone sit down, but only the clan leaders did; so he launched right into their meeting. "First, let me assure all of you that there is such a brew as—" he popped the top off a stone jug, perhaps purely for effect— "White Lightning." He took in the looks on their faces, then smiled. "Perhaps a sip—a drop or two to roll upon the tongue, to savor." He playfully rolled the R in _roll_, which made Leslie grin broadly and got an answering smile from pretty Ruthanne MacAllister. Roarke dealt out small cups of the brew to Chlora and Norris. "A promise of things to come," he concluded.

Chlora drained her cup and assessed it as if it were fine wine, then swallowed and said without inflection, "That's good."

Norris took a quick sip, swallowed and nodded. "That's somethin'," he agreed.

Roarke took back the little cups. "I have given a great deal of thought to your individually arrived at, but identical fantasies; and I have decided upon what I sincerely hope you will accept as an equitable and fair solution."

"Mr. Roarke," said Norris Scoggins then, "I've found I can judge a man just like I can a hot dog—by the set of his teeth and the look of his eye. You got a good set of both."

Tattoo's face was screwed up in a thoroughly perplexed look; Leslie just sat there and stared with her mouth open, first at Scoggins, then at Roarke, who merely said, "Thank you, Mr. Scoggins," before trading a faintly dubious glance with his assistant and his ward.

"I say the proof of the puddin' is in the eatin'," spoke up Chlora then, drawing all their attention. "What's this here solution o'yours, Mr. Roarke?"

"A contest, if you will, Ms. MacAllister," Roarke said, lifting a rolled-up parchment off the desk. He unrolled it. "This map shows the exact location of the remote area where the still which produces the White Lightning is located. I am now tearing it in two," he said, matching action to words, "in such a way that you will both be able to find the still—with some difficulty, naturally, but not so that either of you will have an advantage over the other." He set down the two halves of the map on the desktop.

"Sounds fair to me," offered R.J. Scoggins.

"Couldn't be fairer," Ruthanne MacAllister piped up.

"Thank you," said Roarke, while Leslie noticed R.J. and Ruthanne slant each other looks and shy smiles. "Of course," he went on, apparently oblivious, "if your two clans were to join forces…share the map together…you could both immediately share in whatever rewards the recipe of the elixir might bring you."

Leslie could see already that this idea found no merit with Chlora and Norris, though R.J. and Ruthanne looked ready to endorse it. Each with his or her own agenda, they stepped forward, all talking at once in an attempt to put forth their opinions. Leslie bit her lip; Tattoo edged a little closer to Roarke. "Boss, I think we better get ready to go right away," he advised.

"Perhaps you're right, Tattoo," Roarke mused, considered it a second or two, then settled back and leveled his guests with a gaze that silenced them then and there. "You will find that the still is tended by an old gentleman who will be sole witness to the winner; his proclamation will be final." As he spoke, R.J. and Ruthanne eyed each other again; this time their elders took note and Chlora glared in disapproval, while Norris gave R.J. a none-too-discreet elbow in the chest. "Tattoo and Leslie and I will meet you at the waterfall in one hour," Roarke continued, checking his watch. "At that time, I will give each clan its share of the map, and see to it that the contest is off to a fair start, huh?"

"We'll be there," Norris announced, almost belligerently, then turned to R.J. "C'mon, boy." He herded his nephew toward the foyer.

"We'll be there too," said Chlora. She started to leave, then turned around, pointed at Roarke and warned, "See at'cher on time!" Having dropped that ultimatum, she grabbed Ruthanne and pulled her out in her wake.

Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie stared at her and then at each other while their guests took their leave; then Roarke sat down. Stewing, Leslie demanded, "Who does she think she is, anyway—_you_, Mr. Roarke?" At that Roarke could only laugh.

But before anyone could move or speak any further, there was the carom of a gunshot from outside, and a voice hollered, "It's the MacAllisters—run for cover!" Leslie flinched at the shots; Roarke sat up straight and Tattoo rolled his eyes.

"This puts a new spin on things," Roarke remarked darkly. "I'll have to do something about that when we meet the clan." He caught Leslie's spooked look. "Don't worry, Leslie. They will know soon enough exactly who really is in charge around here." With that he winked at her, and she grinned, reassured.

‡ ‡ ‡

Roarke pulled no punches at the waterfall an hour later. "I am exceedingly disappointed and angry," he stormed in front of the Scoggins men, none of whom looked particularly remorseful. "I will not tolerate the use of firearms on Fantasy Island! And I assure you that I will not accept an innocent expression on your faces either as an excuse or as a promise of your good conduct henceforth." He strode over to where Tattoo and Leslie stood waiting with a trio of constables from town; with one look, he gave the cops permission to do what they must. Leslie and Tattoo watched with increasing astonishment and disbelief, Roarke with the same grim glare on his face, while each of the MacAllister boys was summarily relieved of at least four guns apiece.

Chlora seemed offended. "Now looky here, Mr. Roarke, I want you to know I don't hold with no ambushin'!"

"Wadn't my idea," Norris retorted. "First shot prett' near took my foot off!"

"That's right, that Otis was tryin'a cripple him!" Bobby Joe accused.

Otis folded his arms over his chest. "I don't miss that close," he said. "Amos can't hit the side of a barn."

"I'd'a winged him, but he was movin'," muttered Amos, to Otis' agreement.

Roarke had clearly had enough. _"Silence!"_ he snapped, making Leslie jump and all heads whip around to stare at him. "Everyone." Regaining his composure, he offered a patently false smile. "Now, you will start by divergent trails. Using these pieces of the map, and a little trial and error, each group will in due time find the mountain and the still; the first one to do so will be the winner." He had given both halves of the map to Leslie as he spoke, preparatory to having her present each clan with one side; but at that point Otis, Amos and Bobby Joe headed directly for her to claim the pieces, and she backed off a couple of steps in alarmed response. Roarke came to her rescue. "No, no, no, no, please—step back," he requested. "Please, will you?" They backed off and he nodded once. "Thank you. No, I believe I will have Leslie put the maps into the safekeeping of Miss Chlora MacAllister—" At his gesture, Leslie handed Chlora one of the map halves. "—and Mr. Norris Scoggins." Upon which Leslie edged nervously past Otis and Amos—both of whom scanned her from head to toe with faint but obvious leers—and presented the remaining half to Norris. Norris looked at the girl with a frown, then turned the expression on Roarke.

"That all there is to it?" he wanted to know.

"That's all there is to it," confirmed Roarke. "And of course, I expect the contest to be held in the spirit of fair play and sportsmanlike conduct." He noticed Otis and Amos looking Leslie over once more as she retreated to join Tattoo, and gave them a severe look that made both men shrug at each other. "Good luck," he said a bit coolly, and escorted Leslie and Tattoo off to the rover that waited nearby in the road. Leslie glanced nervously back, then found herself watching as R.J. and Ruthanne cast longing looks and smiles at each other. She also noticed that Bobby Joe saw it, collared his brother and had some words with him, too low for Leslie to hear. She shook her head and hurried to catch up.

"See something back there?" Tattoo asked.

She climbed into the car. "Well…it looks like there's this Romeo and Juliet thing going on between R.J. and Ruthanne. I mean, haven't you seen them making cow eyes at each other every time we're around them? And I think R.J.'s brother's jealous."

"That," said Roarke, voice crisp with weariness born of the MacAllister boys' antics, "is their problem now, I am afraid. They know the rules, so they cannot claim ignorance of either said rules or general island law should they break them. At the moment I have other things that more urgently need attendance."

"Like the way Otis and Amos were looking at me, maybe?" suggested Leslie and shuddered. "Ugh! Couple of sexist pigs!"

Tattoo snickered, and Roarke threw a surprised, amused glance back at her. "Then you should be more than happy that they will be otherwise occupied for the rest of the weekend, hm? As I said, other things need our attention right now."

"Like Miss Lee," Tattoo said gravely.

"Especially Miss Lee," Roarke concurred, frowning. "I have an idea as to how to contact her, but I am not entirely sure it will work."

At the main house, he employed a couple of brawny young natives to help move the TV set from the spare room upstairs, where it was rarely watched anyway (except by Leslie trying to tune in to _King's Castle_ episodes on Saturday evenings), to a table that Leslie and Tattoo dragged into position in front of Roarke's desk. Roarke dismissed the natives with thanks, then carefully adjusted the antenna on the set till it was pointing more or less in the direction of the Enclave. Ushering Leslie and Tattoo to one side with a wave, he clicked the set on, took his chair behind his desk and sat perfectly still, staring at the TV screen with a fierce intensity that should have bored laser holes through it. She looked at Tattoo, who shook his head and put a finger to his lips.

Suddenly a picture washed into life on the screen; it was a surprised Vicky Lee. "Mr. Roarke!" she exclaimed.

"Please forgive this somewhat unusual intrusion, Miss Lee," Roarke said. "Unfortunately, it's the only way I can reach you. I wanted to make certain you're all right."

"Perfectly fine, thank you," said Vicky with a shrug and a smile.

"I'm relieved to hear that. But we may not have much time. May I ask…" he hesitated just a moment— "what is your first impression of Mr. Claude Duncan?"

"I haven't met him yet, but I find his grandson charming," Vicky said with a smile.

Roarke looked puzzled. "His grandson?"

"Ah," Vicky remarked with a grin, "you see, there are things that even you don't know. My book is gonna be sensational; and doing the research just may turn out to be the most exciting part of all."

Roarke looked grimly at her. "Miss Lee, I assure you, Mr. Duncan has no grandson."

"But I've just been with him," protested Vicky. "We had a wonderful, unexpected time together."

"You must not commit yourself in any way," Roarke warned earnestly. "Above all, you must not become emotionally involved with this man—your very life depends on it. In the morning, I will try to establish contact with you again, so that at that time, we can determine the best way to extricate you from Mr. Duncan's…" He trailed off as the picture clouded over and finally dissolved into an electronic blizzard. Then the screen went black, as if someone had shut off the set.

"What happened?" Leslie asked.

Roarke drew in a breath and released it in a long sigh. "That was my last hope of staying in contact with Miss Lee." He glanced at her and Tattoo, then frowned and said quietly, "I fear Claude Duncan is responsible."

"How?" Leslie persisted.

Roarke shook his head. "I'll try to explain later if I can. Right now I think we'd better have something to eat; it's been a long morning."

Leslie ate lunch quickly, hoping her guardian would take the hint and dispatch his own meal in a timely manner so she could get her questions answered that much sooner. He seemed to realize what she was doing, for he smiled knowingly at her a few times as the meal progressed. Finally Tattoo advised laughingly, "Forget it, Leslie—the boss is onto you. You'll just have to be patient."

"As you've probably noticed," Leslie drawled, "I'm not too good at patience."

"Indeed," Roarke said dryly. "All in due time, my dear Leslie."


	10. Chapter 10

§ § § - February 7, 1981

Due time was shortly after lunch, when Roarke went through a few books while Leslie was sorting mail and Tattoo was out on some errands. "Well, it's still true that Claude Duncan has no grandson," Roarke finally remarked, slapping a book shut.

Leslie looked up, instantly eager. "Tell me about it!"

He grinned briefly at her enthusiasm. "Claude Duncan never married. Quite likely, if Becky Lee had lived, he would have married her. However, she died at a rather young age, leaving behind Vicky Lee's father and grandfather; it is said in most sources that she left them for Claude Duncan, although apparently under duress. They had starred together in just three films, all of them produced within the year their affair lasted. Then she died; and, after her passing, Claude Duncan retreated here to the island and begged me for sanctuary. But he had an ulterior motive." His gaze lost focus. "He told me up-front that he had made a pact with the Greek god Pan that would allow him to live forever. Becky Lee had willingly died to help him keep his end of the bargain he had struck; but in order to elude questions from the authorities, he needed to leave the country. So I granted him sanctuary here, and he built the chateau in what was then one of the most remote parts of the island."

"You mean…you knew he was responsible for Becky Lee's death?" Leslie exclaimed, aghast. At his nod, she reared back. "Why'd you let him stay, then?"

Roarke focused on her again. "The pact called for two sacrifices to fulfill Duncan's side of the bargain he made with Pan. In return, he would remain young and vibrant and alive for all eternity. The second sacrifice was due fifty years to the day after the death of Becky Lee—and this weekend marks that anniversary."

"Okay, but why did you let him live here?" Leslie persisted.

"Because I had hopes that, when that fiftieth anniversary arrived, I would be able to thwart Duncan's plans somehow. To that end, I confined him to the chateau and forbade him to venture outside its walls for any reason whatsoever. In return, I agreed to relinquish any power over him. You see, it was my hope that the simple lack of a second victim would be all it took to do that, but Vicky Lee defied my warnings and came here anyway. Now it will take a direct confrontation between me and Duncan to stop the final fulfillment of the pact." He frowned, tossed a glance at the grandfather clock and made to arise. "I'll have to try one more time to remove Miss Lee from Duncan's clutches. If I can't…"

Leslie decided not to ask what would happen in that event. "Can I go?"

"No, you should remain here for your own safety. You have plenty of mail to go through at any rate." He smiled at her. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

He took a rover and drove out to the Enclave, thinking carefully all the way there, plotting alternatives in the likely event that Duncan would refuse to release Vicky. By the time he pulled to a stop some distance from the gate, he had made a few decisions and was ready to confront Claude Duncan.

He got out of the car and waited at the gate till Duncan appeared from behind a shelter that housed the statue Leslie had seen that morning. Duncan's attention was on his footsteps, so Roarke had to call out. "Duncan! I have come for Miss Lee."

The youthful man behind the gate stopped and stared at him, almost sneering. "She came here of her own free will, Roarke. And now that she _is_ here, she stays."

Roarke never broke his own steady, sharp glare. "I offer you redemption in return for Miss Lee's life."

Though Duncan's expression never changed, the light of mockery seemed to fill his eyes. He strolled confidently toward the statue of Pan. "I need no redemption. The god Pan will preserve me forever."

"If you harm Miss Lee," Roarke warned, "you will be giving yourself over to evil totally and eternally."

"I already belong to Pan, body and soul," Duncan shot back. "I gave him Becky."

"Becky Lee was a voluntary victim, corrupted by your evilness. Her granddaughter will not submit herself voluntarily, and she is innocent!"

"Then that is her worry, Roarke—and yours!" Duncan turned to the statue and gazed at it; Roarke, too, stared at the statue, watching tendrils of smoke drifting around it and a red light flickering around it, as if generated from within by some living thing. The statue almost seemed to be returning Roarke's glare; the smoke and flickering died away after a moment or two, as though it had merely been daring Roarke to engage in a real battle.

"When you confined me within these walls and limited my powers to this chateau, you forfeited your own powers over me," Duncan told Roarke, glaring.

"That was our pact," agreed Roarke, "but I remind you that it ends at midnight."

"By that time, Vicky will be dead—and I will be beyond your reach, forever," Duncan announced, as if certain of a victory.

Roarke's glare grew more savage. "To take Miss Lee, you must destroy me first." And with that, he departed, leaving Duncan there with his statue.

As he drove back toward home, he could just imagine what Leslie would say when she learned of this. He had committed himself to a confrontation, but it was plain enough that Vicky Lee wouldn't get out of this fantasy without his intervention. He decided to see to it that Tattoo stayed with Leslie until he himself returned from the chateau that night.

Supper was ready by the time he reached the main house, and over the meal he informed Leslie and Tattoo of what he had to do. Tattoo frowned; Leslie glanced at him, then asked, "So is Pan as bad as Mephistopheles?"

Roarke, caught by surprise, stared at her and then grinned in spite of himself. It was obvious that his confrontation with his oldest adversary the previous fall had branded itself onto her memory, never to be erased. "Well," he said, realizing she expected an answer, "I won't have to engage in a contest of wits, let's put it that way. However, facing and defeating Pan carries its own dangers, so there are certainly risks."

"So he's less dangerous?" Leslie pressed him.

"It depends," said Roarke, "on what you define as dangerous, and what degree of peril you place on your various definitions. If you find being banished to Mephistopheles' realm for eternity more dangerous than being destroyed by Pan, then one might say that the former is in fact worse than the latter."

"What he's saying," Tattoo put in with a gleam in his eye, "is, is it worse to go to hell, or to just get killed?"

Leslie glared at him, threw Roarke a disgruntled look and muttered, "Honestly, sometimes I think you two just hate to take me seriously."

They both laughed, and Tattoo patted her arm a few times. "The boss can handle it," he said. "You shouldn't worry so much."

"There are always risks inherent in any such undertaking," Roarke said. "But the procedure involved in battling Pan is more straightforward and, shall we say, less cerebral than dealing with Mephistopheles; and Pan and I are not mortal enemies."

"So once he beats Pan, we won't have to worry about him anymore," Tattoo concluded confidently, and Leslie grinned.

"Good. One less creepy entity to bug us all the time," she said, which made the men laugh again. Leslie and Tattoo had some dessert while Roarke retreated into his study to do a little bit more research, and then Tattoo headed out to the luau to make routine rounds while Leslie prepared outgoing mail to be sent the following day.

Then Roarke noted the time, at around nine, and arose. "I believe it would be a good time to make a check on the Scoggins-MacAllister fantasy," he remarked. "Would you care to come along, Leslie?"

"Sure," she agreed, and Roarke drove them out to the waterfall, where he parked the rover and led her into the nearby jungle, following one of the trails that had been marked on the map he'd split between the two clans. Leslie noticed Roarke himself didn't seem to need a map and thought, _Well, are you really surprised?_ She grinned to herself and made sure to stick close behind him; she didn't have his extensive knowledge of the island.

After about forty minutes of steady walking, Leslie finally dared venture to ask, "How far is it really to the still, Mr. Roarke?"

He glanced at her over his shoulder and smiled. "If you are familiar with the area, or if you have the full map, getting from the waterfall to the still involves about three hours of walking. Because each clan has only half the map, and because neither will cooperate with the other, it will thus take all of them several times that long."

"I guess they just can't stand to break up a good feud," Leslie wisecracked, and he chuckled, beckoning her along.

Another fifteen minutes or so later, they could hear shouting somewhere not too far ahead of them; Roarke frowned, pausing, then shook his head. "Someone may be in danger," he said. "Stay close by me."

She all but grabbed the back of his suit jacket as she picked her way along in his wake; they rounded several twists, climbed over a couple of fallen trees and even a boulder at one point, and then came around a last curve to find Norris Scoggins dangling upside down from a noose snare anchored in the top of a nearby young tree, and R.J. trussed up on the ground, squirming and hollering. "Mr. Roarke!" they both shouted in relief.

Leslie gaped. "Holy cow, what happened to you guys?"

"Otis and Amos MacAllister, that's what!" yelled R.J. "Can you help us?"

"Leslie, quickly," Roarke said, gesturing at R.J., and he knelt to work loose a knot that was large and lumpy, but ultimately not very complicated. He then pulled R.J. to his feet and Leslie rapidly unwound the rope from around him, amid R.J.'s profuse thanks. R.J. and Roarke then pulled at the tree, not much more than a sapling really, and managed to bend it far enough toward the ground so that Norris was able to sit right-side up, grab the loop ensnaring his ankles, and work his feet out of it. R.J. helped his uncle get to his feet, checking that he was okay.

Norris grinned appreciatively. "Boy, am I glad to see you, Mr. Roarke. Lucky for us you happened along."

"Most fortunate, yes," Roarke agreed, glancing at Leslie. She understood; they could just as easily have followed the path assigned to the MacAllisters.

"Otis and Amos got the map," R.J. commented a little apathetically, his face a curious parody of sorrow. "I guess they must've found the still by now."

Roarke and Leslie were both amazed. "Well, considering what is at stake, Mr. Scoggins," Roarke remarked, "the possibility doesn't seem to overexcite you in the least!"

"Y'know, I been noticin' that too, Mr. Roarke," Norris said, turning to his nephew and scowling. "Sometimes I worry that the wear 'n' tear o' propagation just plain thinned out the Scoggins blood too much!" At that Roarke turned aside to hide a grin.

R.J. finally reacted for real. "Don't you worry none about _my_ blood!" he snapped.

"Well, I do, boy, I do," Norris retorted and turned back to Roarke. "What happens now, Mr. Roarke, are we beat?"

Roarke smiled reassuringly. "Oh no—not at all, no. Even with the map, it will be morning before your adversaries can reach the mountain, no. And, in consideration of the unfair tactics employed by them—" he indicated the limply dangling noose in the tree— "I will point out a shortcut, which will give you an equal opportunity to still win the contest."

Norris lit up. "Balls o' fire, didja hear that, boy?" he exclaimed, while R.J. looked distinctly annoyed. Oblivious, Norris turned back to Roarke. "Point the way, Mr. Roarke. Ol' Bobby Joe got himself lost, but soon as we find him, we'll be on our way. Just point it out!"

Leslie grinned at his enthusiasm, but couldn't help peering at R.J. and wondering why he seemed so upset by the idea of catching up with the MacAllisters. She pondered the problem while Roarke explained, "Just follow that trail, Mr. Scoggins. I have a feeling you'll find your nephew ahead of you somewhere. I wish the both of you good luck in your quest."

Norris beamed his thanks, then turned just in time to see R.J. take a step towards the supplies lying on the ground nearby. "Fergit the gear, boy, come on!" He grabbed R.J.'s hand and towed him along down the path Roarke had pointed out.

Roarke watched them go, a wry little smile on his features that faded out as the two vanished into the dense overgrowth. Leslie cleared her throat to get his attention, and he turned quizzically to her. "Something on your mind?"

"Did you see the way R.J. looked when you told him and his uncle about the shortcut?" Leslie asked. "I thought for a minute he was going to actually get mad!"

"Indeed," Roarke said, the wry smile returning.

"I wonder why," she mumbled, thinking back. "I mean…I can't imagine any other reason for him doing that except that he's got a thing for Ruthanne MacAllister, but I don't quite get it." She peered at Roarke. "Do people actually fall so much in love that they're willing to desert their families over it?"

"Frequently," Roarke assured her. "It has happened over and over again throughout the millennia. And in this case, it should provide a very interesting twist to the outcome of this little contest." He winked at her. "It's getting quite late, and you need your sleep; we'd best get back as quickly as we can."

Tattoo had come back from the luau when they got back, so Roarke sent Leslie to bed and asked Tattoo to remain till he returned. He took the drive to the Enclave slowly, as there was plenty of time to kill; he had to think about things in any case. A memory came back to him as he let the rover coast along the Ring Road—one from nearly fifty years back, at the time when Claude Duncan had first come to the island. He'd had no entourage; it was just Duncan himself, with eight or ten steamer trunks, crate after crate of ornate furniture to be stored till the chateau was complete, and dozens and dozens of knickknacks, doodads and tchotchkes in every possible size. Among these had been a painting that had been very carefully wrapped in an old bedsheet; Roarke had been at what was now the ferry dock at the time, on some business, while most of the young men from the fishing village had been unloading Duncan's belongings in a never-ending stream. Somehow he had noticed that painting going by, swaying on the shoulders of a kid who couldn't have been more than about fourteen years old; as the boy stumbled along, hunchbacked by the painting's weight, the coverings fell aside and Roarke saw the subject. It was a portrait of Claude Duncan, already looking taut and grim with age, glaring out of the painting with his arms crossed defiantly over his chest. He was wearing an elegant tuxedo, but looked like something right out of hell.

Roarke had never forgotten that painting, and even then he had known immediately who the subject was and why it looked like that. He had thought, at the time, that it was _The Portrait of Dorian Gray_ come to life; and now, as he guided the coasting car along the curves of the Ring Road, he knew that painting was the key to this whole thing. He had to smile. Maybe Pan and Duncan had been inspired by that story, who knew? In which case, it should be simple enough to bring this whole sorry mess to an end.

He had to pay more attention to his driving when he reached the Enclave's access lane, for it sloped somewhat steeply up the side of the large hill that formed this part of the island. He switched his high beams on as soon as he turned down the lane that led to the chateau, and applied a little speed, since the lane was pin-straight and his watch told him that midnight was less than ten minutes away.

He pulled the car to a stop in front of the gate and surveyed the area; it was nearly impossible to see, for the moon was hidden and the jungle very effectively shaded the chateau from any pesky ray of light that might dare venture in. Once more he looked at his watch; there were literally seconds till midnight.

Peering overhead, he drew in a deep breath and raised one hand; the entire world around him stilled. There was no sound, no motion at all; it was like standing in the middle of a photograph. He nodded once to himself and closed his eyes, and an instant later he was standing in a gloomy, windowless room in the interior of the Duncan chateau, surrounded by walls hung with deep red draperies, punctuated by columns, idols, statues, braziers and sconces. Almost everything was hewn from stone. On one wall ticked an elegant gold clock with a heavy, ornate pendulum that swung back and forth at a wide angle. It was in the midst of chiming midnight when he stilled it.

Beside a table with a thick marble top stood a tuxedoed man and a dark-haired young woman dressed in purple; he had her by one arm and was clearly preparing to drive a knife into her. She, too, was motionless. "Duncan," Roarke said.

Duncan turned and gaped. "Roarke!" When Roarke made no move but merely stared at him, he said, "You're too late. You can't enter the pentacle."

"The pact ended at midnight, Duncan," Roarke reminded him. "We are now frozen in an instant of time between the death of the old day and the birth of the new. Look at the clock." He pointed to it, and Duncan took in the way the pendulum hovered to one side, caught just as it was about to swing back the other way. Neither man seemed to notice that, despite the complete stillness of everything else in the room, the fires in the sconces and braziers crackled merrily on.

"A trick," Duncan said, glaring. "Pan will renew my covenant!"

But Roarke had heard the note of desperation in his voice, and smiled ever so slightly. "No. No, he cannot. Not until the new day has begun."

They hovered a moment, Duncan's wariness growing; then Roarke sauntered down the few steps into the room. "There is always a way, Duncan." He reached a brazier and removed a brand from it. "Throughout human history, fire has been the great cleanser." He crossed the room at leisure, brand at the ready. "Consuming the waste matters of plague and pestilence…devouring corruption…" Perhaps that touched a chord with Duncan, for he dodged aside as if shying from a blow. "…purifying the tainted earth and cauterizing the wounds of the world." He paused beside the painting he remembered from so long ago; it looked more frightful and repulsive than ever. A sense of satisfaction leaped to life within him as he aimed for it with the brand.

"No, Roarke, no!" cried Duncan desperately. Roarke paused, withdrew the brand for a moment and took in the horrified expression on Duncan's face. It was the look of a man who knew his life was about to end.

"Let the flames cleanse you too," Roarke urged gently. "Let them take you to your rest." He waited, but Duncan could only stare, helpless to move; at last he turned back to the painting and seared it with the brand.

"No," moaned Duncan, pure panic on his face. "No, no…" He gasped, his breath increasingly labored, while the paint on the canvas buckled and began to melt, slowly dripping off the easel. Roarke turned back to watch, taking care to keep the brand pressed firmly against the canvas; Duncan threw both hands over his face and trembled against the wall.

Slowly, the image on the painting became that of the real Claude Duncan; though his face was hidden, his hands showed the effects of age, the ravages of the last fifty years spotting them, gnarling them, leaving them weaker. All the disfiguration that had been held at bay came back in a gradual but perceptible rush, till the man against the wall began to slump and the hands slowly fell away from the face, revealing a grisly skull barely concealed by rotting green flesh. Then the whole apparition faded from sight, as if it had never been, leaving behind the elegant tuxedo Duncan had been wearing, now crumpled on the floor.

The canvas itself finally caught fire and began to burn, and Roarke lowered the brand, turning his back on the easel and taking in the room. He narrowed his eyes carefully at the clock; the pendulum resumed swinging and the chiming continued. Sound and motion returned in a surprisingly noisy rush. He replaced the brand in its brazier, then walked over to Vicky Lee, who jerked into motion, blinked and looked around.

Without a word, he braced her shoulder and turned her around to lead her out of the room and back to the bungalow she had never actually set foot in that weekend. At the door, however, they heard a rush of fire behind them and saw that the main brazier in the middle of the room had become a bonfire. Behind this, they could make out the unmistakable image of a man and a woman, holding each other as if posing for a movie poster, dressed in the elegance of some sixty years before.

"Thank you, Mr. Roarke," Claude Duncan's voice came to them as from a distance, echoing. "Thank you for freeing me at last. Ah, Becky…my love…my love." The fire reared even higher and the two ghostly figures faded from view.

"Mr. Roarke…did you see? Did you hear?" breathed Vicky in wonder.

"Yes, Miss Lee. The real Claude Duncan and your grandmother, together at last, forever." He smiled faintly. "What the flames destroyed was not a man, but only an evil dream, a shadow of reality." She glanced at him, then smiled; and they left the room together.


	11. Chapter 11

§ § § - February 8, 1981

Leslie was awakened by Roarke's footsteps, even though he moved almost soundlessly along the carpeted hallway. Of course, he saw her raise her head. "Are you all right, Leslie?" he inquired.

"Sure, I'm fine. Where're you going?" she asked through a yawn.

He paused in the doorway and gave her a conspiratorial smile. "I'm preparing to end the MacAllister-Scoggins fantasy," he said. "Perhaps you'd like to watch."

The invitation was more than she could resist. "What do you mean, 'perhaps'?" she retorted with a grin, and he laughed and left her privacy to get dressed.

The sky was turning pink in the east as Roarke piloted a rover up a winding trail on the back side of the mountain he had sent the two feuding clans to find the day before. After a good fifteen minutes of climbing, he parked the rover among some trees where it couldn't be seen, alighted from the car and beckoned Leslie to follow. They made their way along a short trail into an unexpected clearing, where a rickety shed stood not far from their end of the expanse, half covering a huge, steaming, rusty-looking lidded barrel. A haphazardly coiled copper tube spiraled from an upside-down funnel atop the barrel and disappeared into a copper pot about half the size of the barrel; the pot had a spigot driven into one side near the bottom, and under the spigot rested an earthenware jug.

"This is the still?" Leslie asked, astonished.

"This is the still," Roarke confirmed, tugging at the old brown rags he wore and leading the way to the shed. Removing his battered hat, he reached underneath a huge old jug and pulled out a bushy white wig and a few other bits and pieces that, within just a few minutes, had transformed him into a nearly ancient mountain man. Leslie recalled what he had told the clans the previous morning and snickered. "Oh, so you're the 'old gentleman' who's tending the still, then. I wonder if they'll recognize you."

"I suspect they'll all be too busy rejoicing over their find," Roarke remarked, crossing over to the copper pot. "I daresay you'd better conceal yourself, lest you give away my identity too soon." He winked at her and she snickered, glancing around the area and then slipping behind the shed. It was as haphazard as the still, with enough space between boards that she could peek through and see everything that went on. She found a good peeking spot just in time to see Roarke lean over, catch a drop from the spigot with one finger, and taste it. "Mm, that's good, that's good," he remarked in an odd, high-pitched voice that had lost all trace of his natural Latin accent. "That's the stuff they gave the troops!" Unable to help herself, Leslie laughed, and he paused just long enough to wink at her again before lifting one finger to his lips.

He took up a post behind the barrel, almost as though in hiding, and none too soon: a few seconds later, several figures emerged from one of the trails that led into the clearing. "That's it!" crowed the voice of Otis MacAllister. "We found the still! And look—the Scogginses." He pointed across the clearing to a second path, from which R.J. and Norris were just stepping out. "They're too late—we were here first!"

R.J. and Norris stopped and stared; the MacAllister boys took advantage and charged across the clearing, howling, "We won! We won!" R.J. and Norris took to their own heels, just as Bobby Joe knocked Otis and Amos aside with a couple of body blows. Leslie was amazed to see that Bobby Joe's hands had been tied behind his back. Norris and R.J. threw themselves headlong into the resulting scuffle while Chlora and Ruthanne, a few feet behind the men, stared on, mouths open in alarm.

Leslie watched her guardian grab a sawed-off shotgun from a corner of the shed and move out so he had clear aim. "Stop that fightin'," Roarke commanded in his high, ornery-old-coot voice. "Now!"

No one paid attention, so he raised the gun—at which point Leslie slammed her hands over her ears—and fired off a carefully aimed shot that instantly froze everyone. They all gaped at him as if they'd never seen another human being before.

"I'll decide who's the winner here," Roarke informed them, glaring at them through his disguise. "Have you forgotten what Mr. Roarke tol' ya? Huh?" The men picked themselves up and separated into their respective family units, still belting each other a few times as they did so. "You, you. Com'ere." He pointed with the gun at Norris and Chlora, who exchanged uncertain glances and crossed the clearing. "Come over here." When they reached a table containing a jug and a few small tin cups, Roarke handed them each one of them. "Now you let the young men taste White Lightning."

Leslie watched avidly while Chlora took the cup to Otis and Amos, and Norris toted his over to his two nephews. Amos got the first sip, then Otis, while Norris gave Bobby Joe a draft of the stuff. But when Norris made to give the cup to R.J., Roarke intervened again. "No, no, he don't need no taste." R.J. and Norris stopped and stared at him. "Nor you," he added when Norris made to sip, "nor you." This last was aimed at Ruthanne; both she and her aunt paused to stare at him as well. Slowly Roarke put the gun down and began to reach for his fake beard. "What you call White Lightning," he began, peeling one piece of his disguise after another away from his face and reverting to his own voice, "is, indeed, a wondrous nectar." Leslie could see the startled recognition dawn on the faces of everyone in both clans. "A single taste transforms the drinker into a person of compassion and brotherly love…permanently."

He uttered the last word with a certain purpose, and the moment it was out, Amos' and Otis MacAllister's heads flinched and they stared into the sky, wonder blooming on their faces. The same transformation happened in Bobby Joe, whose face broke out into a huge grin. Leslie found herself watching the three former antagonists suddenly beaming at each other, laughing and exchanging hugs and slapping each other's backs, at least once R.J. got Bobby Joe's wrists free of the rope that still bound them. As Roarke pulled off the hat and wig, Amos offered, "Sorry 'bout that, Bobby Joe…no hard feelin's, huh?"

"Shucks…weren't nothin'!" Bobby Joe scoffed, cackling cheerfully.

"And now, Ms. MacAllister, Mr. Scoggins," Roarke said then, "I believe it's time to reveal the true fantasy of your aunt—" he nodded at Ruthanne and her brothers— "and your uncle." This he aimed at R.J. and Bobby Joe, while Leslie decided it was okay to come out of hiding and sidled up to stand beside her guardian.

"They had a fantasy?" Leslie asked. "I thought it was to find the White Lightning."

"Oh, it was that," Roarke agreed, "but you see, they too have been in love with each other for many years." Disbelief crossed the faces of all the younger clan members while Chlora and Norris shyly sneaked glances at each other. "But the feud between your families kept them apart, stole away their youth…broke their hearts." Bobby Joe, Otis and Amos got guilty looks about them; R.J. and Ruthanne had eyes only for Norris and Chlora. "Their true fantasy was to make certain that the same thing didn't happen to you." He nodded at Ruthanne and R.J. "Well, their fantasy is now complete, but yours—yours is only beginning."

Ruthanne hugged Chlora, and as R.J. went to stand beside her, Chlora moved over to Norris' side. Norris doffed his hat, and Leslie found herself smiling with her guardian when the two joined hands.

"What a great ending," she whispered to him.

"Indeed," he said, nodding and then smiling down at her.

"So this means nobody'll be shooting any more guns from now on, right?" she postscripted hopefully, and Roarke began to laugh, shaking his head with delight.

‡ ‡ ‡

"Mr. Roarke…" Leslie said slowly, at lunch, catching Tattoo's attention. "I, um, I have a question for you."

"I thought perhaps you had something on your mind. Ever since we left the White Lightning still, you've been preoccupied. What is it?" Roarke encouraged.

"Well…you have to have a pass to get on the charter plane so you can come to the island," she began. "But I don't see how come you sent one to Vicky Lee if you warned her not to come here."

Roarke looked faintly surprised, but Tattoo cleared his throat and smiled sheepishly. "That was my fault," he said. "We were behind the week we were answering the batch of requests that Miss Lee's letter came with. The boss needed some extra help, so I took a bunch of mail home with me and sat up till one in the morning one night, putting letters in envelopes and adding charter passes to them, and putting stamps on them, and all that. One of the ones that got a pass was Vicky Lee's. I didn't even look at the letter except to match up the name on it with the one on the envelope."

"That still doesn't make any sense," Leslie protested.

"The letter was a strong warning against her coming," Roarke told her. "I advised her that if she insisted on making the trip, she did so at her own risk. When her return letter arrived telling me she wanted the fantasy too badly to give up, I sent another explaining that her life would be in danger should she come here. There was no response, so to be certain she understood my position, I sent her the telegram last week. Yet she came anyway."

"She never really did believe you, boss, not till it was too late," Tattoo observed.

"Quite true," Roarke agreed. "But in the end, it was all for the best. Claude Duncan was released from any ties he had to Pan, and now both he and Becky Lee can find their rest. And Vicky Lee is now free to write her grandmother's biography."

"So what's going to happen to the chateau?" Leslie asked.

"Claude Duncan, obviously believing his pact with Pan would be fulfilled and that he would live forever, left no will. Unfortunately, he has no descendants and no immediate living family members. I've spent the morning looking into appointing a lawyer to execute Duncan's estate. Nothing can be done with the chateau until a relative is located."

"So it's just going to sit there?" Leslie prompted, astonished.

Roarke nodded. "I'm afraid it's the only legal option. I've already gone down there and padlocked the gate against looters."

"That sounds like a waste," Leslie remarked, working her fork through a hunk of mango to cut off a piece. "I mean, if they can't find any relatives, you'd think it'd go to Vicky Lee, or maybe her dad, because Duncan loved Becky Lee so much."

Roarke regarded her. "It's certainly a good idea. I'll speak with Miss Lee this afternoon and find out what her wishes are."

As it turned out, Vicky Lee wasn't interested in the chateau, after what had happened therein. "I think I'd rather just stay away from it," she said. "I have all the material I need now to write Grandmother's biography, and I don't want to go back there anyway. It'll be hard enough to explain what really happened to Grandmother and to Claude Duncan."

Roarke nodded. "I understand, Miss Lee. Thank you for your time."

"When do you think your book'll come out?" Leslie asked then. "I'd really like to read it. I mean, this whole weekend's made me curious about your grandmother."

Vicky Lee laughed. "I'm glad to know I'm guaranteed at least one future reader. But I don't think it'll be published for at least another couple of years, so don't hold your breath waiting. I have a lot of notes to organize and plenty of writing to do."

"Well, I'll be waiting anyway," Leslie promised, and the young journalist laughed and thanked her before leaving. _And,_ Leslie added to herself, _so will that chateau!_

§ § § - February 9, 1981

The first rover dropped off R.J. Scoggins and Ruthanne MacAllister, who to Leslie's surprise were alone. Ruthanne was frantic. "Oh, Mr. Roarke," she blurted as she stumbled out of the rover behind R.J., "we can't find Aunt Chlora and Uncle Norris anywhere, and it's time to leave!"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot to tell you," Roarke exclaimed apologetically. "They've decided to stay on here for a few more days."

"And get reacquainted," added Tattoo.

"Why, that sly ol' dog," R.J. said, grinning.

Ruthanne beamed. "Oh, I'm so glad. They deserve so much! Thank you for everything, Mr. Roarke." She shook his hand.

"That goes double for me. Thank you very much," R.J. added.

Roarke smiled and thanked them, but Leslie had another question. "Um, I hope you don't mind if I ask, but what plans do you have after you go back to Tennessee?"

R.J. grinned. "Well, right after we get married—" he returned Ruthanne's huge grin— "Otis and Amos and Bobby Joe and I're starting a new business."

"I didn't know that," exclaimed Ruthanne. "Where are the boys, anyway?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, honey. They caught an early plane to get things started. Y'see, we're combinin' the Scoggins and MacAllister land, and splittin' it between peanuts and sweet potatoes—maybe even a little sorghum. Now, it's gonna be an equal partnership, o'course…" His voice faded from earshot as he and Ruthanne strolled away toward the landing dock. "I figure that in five years' time, we'll be in clover!"

"White Lightning strikes again, boss," remarked Tattoo, grinning.

"Indeed, Tattoo!" Roarke said, and he too grinned, including Leslie in the gesture. "Indeed." They returned Ruthanne's and R.J.'s farewell waves.

The second rover drew up with Vicky Lee inside; she stepped out with assistance from Roarke and paused in front of him, her face solemn. "Mr. Roarke…you wanted to refuse my fantasy, and you were right. But I _am_ glad I came."

"I understand," Roarke assured her. "Destiny often works in strange but wonderful ways."

"Now you can go home and write your book about your grandmother," said Tattoo.

"Yes, but a very different kind of book from the one I had planned, Tattoo," Vicky told him, perhaps a bit ruefully.

"I'm sure it will be a success," Roarke said, smiling. "After all, it's basically a love story, isn't it?"

Vicky smiled broadly and nodded. "Yes. A love story." Her eyes lost focus for a few seconds; then she brightened again. "Thank you, Mr. Roarke." She stretched up on her toes to kiss his cheek.

"Thank you, Miss Lee," he replied, and farewells went around before Vicky made her way up the dock to the charter.

"Boss," Tattoo mused, "I wonder what it would be like to be young forever."

"Well, if you wish it, Tattoo, I will see if I can arrange a seating with the same artist who painted the picture of Mr. Duncan…you know?" Roarke inquired.

"Oh, c'mon, he's gotta be dead by now," Leslie snorted.

"Besides, I was just wondering," Tattoo added hastily, while Roarke grinned at Leslie over his head. She hid a silent snicker behind one hand.

"Uh-huh," Roarke murmured, amused.

"What's a gray hair or two?" added Tattoo diffidently.

"That's right, yes," Roarke agreed.

"Oh, like you have any gray hairs anyway," Leslie said with disgust, and Roarke finally let out his laugh before they returned Vicky Lee's final wave.

§ § § - June 25, 2008

"That is positively creepy," Maureen said, making a face. "Now that I know all that, I'm not sure I'll get any sleep tonight."

"Yuck, me either!" agreed Brianna Harding, shuddering.

"I think it's cool," Noelle Tokita spoke up from beside her best friend. "A haunted chateau. Maybe the ghosts of Claude Duncan and Becky Lee are still hanging around your house, Brianna."

"I don't think so," Grady and Maureen chorused, setting off a round of laughter. Grady, chuckling, added, "I won't say I don't believe in ghosts, being a resident of this island, but I can tell you for sure that if you do see any, they won't be Duncan and his inamorata." At the girls' looks, he grinned. "Weren't you two listening to the story? Those two ghosts were laid to rest, thanks to Mr. Roarke."

"Crud," muttered Noelle in disappointment, while Brianna blew out a relieved breath. Everyone laughed again, and a moment's silence fell while Roarke and Leslie refreshed themselves with replenished beverages.

Then Myeko, who had been eyeing her daughter, spoke up. "I think, if Noelle is nuts enough to want a ghost story, we should give her one. I mean, now that I know what to give Maureen next Christmas—" she smirked at Maureen, who rolled her eyes amid some more chuckles— "I think some of us are in the mood for some extra scaring."

"No, don't," Brianna begged. "That last one was scary enough."

Leslie grinned. "I think we can probably accommodate you. This involves both a ghost and some time travel, but the ghost is a romantic one, so no nightmares tonight."

§ § § - February 12, 1983

"Smiles, everyone, smiles," Roarke called out, signaling at the band to begin playing. Tattoo climbed the steps to the platform Roarke had installed for him a couple of years before; there had been a few times when Leslie had been tempted to sit on the little dais in front of him while Roarke introduced their guests, but the one time she'd tried it the previous summer had gotten her such a disapproving look from her guardian that she had never dared do it again. She sometimes wondered why she'd bothered; they were never there long enough for her feet to start aching from standing. Maybe the temptation had just been too much to resist.

The first person to emerge from the hatch was an older man in suit and tie; he smiled at the attendants and waved off any assistance. "Who's that nice-looking man, boss?" asked Tattoo with interest.

"Mr. John Cook, a very successful physical therapist from St. Paul, Minnesota," said Roarke briskly.

"He's got a nice face, but…his eyes look kind of sad," Tattoo commented.

Roarke studied him, impressed. "Very perceptive, Tattoo. In fact, Mr. Cook is fighting courageously to hold his life together right now. You see, his wife of thirty-nine years died only six months ago."

"Oh, what a shame," murmured Leslie.

"He loved her very much, right, boss?" Tattoo asked.

Roarke nodded. "Oh yes, Tattoo, Mr. Cook loved his wife very deeply. But, out of his genuine consideration for other people, he has never openly shown his grief."

"So, what's his fantasy?" Tattoo prodded.

"His fantasy, Tattoo, is to have one last dance with his wife," Roarke said reflectively, his dark eyes losing focus for a moment. Leslie and Tattoo looked at each other, then at him; and Leslie found herself wondering if Roarke was thinking of Helena right now.

Tattoo was confused, though. "But boss, how can he? You said that she was…" He shot a glance at John Cook, then lowered his voice. "…that she was dead."

Roarke said nothing, only took in his ward and his assistant with the faintest of smiles, then returned his attention to the plane. A well-dressed woman, perhaps in her early forties, wearing a muted light-tan dress under a bright-red jacket that matched the tropical hues in the natives' clothing, stepped out, her dark curly hair reflecting the sun. "Who is that lady, boss?" Tattoo asked. "She looks shy."

"Miss Adele Anthony, a waitress from Des Moines, Iowa," said Roarke, "and you're right, Tattoo. She is not much of a socializer." Adele Anthony had started venturing down the ramp, suitcase in hand, her smile looking slightly artificial while she flicked hesitant gazes at the beaming natives on either side of her. "And ever since her parents died, she has spent all her time working to support her younger brothers and sisters."

"She sounds nice," offered Tattoo. "So what's her fantasy?"

"Well, having served others all her life, Miss Anthony's fantasy is to spend the weekend having others wait on her."

Leslie peered at him. "You mean, like a rich type with loads of household staff?"

"That's all?" Tattoo added, grinning confidently. "That's a simple fantasy."

"Yes," murmured Roarke thoughtfully, studying Adele Anthony, "but I have a feeling there is something else she wants from us."

"Like what?" Leslie wanted to know, but Roarke only aimed his mysterious stare at her before a native girl arrived with his drink and he toasted their guests.


	12. Chapter 12

§ § § - February 12, 1983

They allowed their guests an hour to settle in and change their clothes; then Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie paid a call on John Cook, who beamed at them as he let them in. Despite his cheerful façade, Leslie could see now that Tattoo had been right about the sadness in his eyes; his smile never quite reached them. "Glad to see you," Cook said. "Come right in. Can I get you gentlemen anything? Or you, young lady?" He paused barely a second, squinting at Leslie. "You look like you're about my oldest granddaughter's age. How old _are_ you?"

"I'll be eighteen in May," Leslie offered.

"I was right," Cook said heartily. "Sharon turns eighteen in July. So, anything? I found a wonderful pot of tea in here, but you have to know I can't possibly drink the whole thing myself. Please, I insist that you have some."

Leslie and Tattoo both declined, but Roarke took a cup, perhaps to appease his guest; it was a small thing. They took seats, and Roarke cleared his throat. "Judging from your letter and the way you phrased your request," he began, "you must have had a truly happy and thriving marriage."

"Oh, I loved my wife, Mr. Roarke," Cook said, nodding. "Always will. The years we had together were more than happy—they were a gift. Complete. Except…"

When he hesitated, Roarke prompted, "Except for what?"

"Well, there was one small thing left unfinished," Cook admitted, setting his cup aside as if he'd had his fill.

Tattoo leaned eagerly forward. "What's that?"

"Tomorrow night," Cook observed almost jovially, arising and wandering toward the raised dining area, "would have been our fortieth wedding anniversary." He stopped and turned to face them. "It's funny how little things get started. Now every year, she'd give me a white rosebud for my lapel; I'd give her an orchid corsage, and we'd go dancing." Roarke and Tattoo nodded; Tattoo looked solemn, and Roarke had an understanding smile. Leslie smiled too, but wistfully; she'd always wondered if such marriages were real, or just the fabrication of widows and widowers whose memories were being filtered through rose-colored glasses. Cook's expression shifted. "She really fought to stay alive for this anniversary, Mr. Roarke. Our…our ruby anniversary." He removed a small object from the breast pocket of his casual jacket. It was a gold ring set with a surprisingly large stone; he shifted it back and forth between his thumb and forefinger so that the ruby caught the light. "But she didn't make it. It was her final wish—and mine too—to have this one last dance together."

"Boss," Tattoo broke in then, "we can do it, can't we?"

He sounded so hopeful and pleading that even Leslie had to smile; Roarke regarded his assistant with a knowing look, and nodded. "Yes, Tattoo," he said quietly.

Tattoo beamed at Cook, who lifted only his eyes, staring at Roarke. "I can assure you, your fantasy will be fulfilled, Mr. Cook," Roarke went on.

Off Cook's skeptical look, Tattoo chimed in eagerly, "Tomorrow is the annual Fantasy Island Valentine's Ball."

Roarke smiled at him again. "That's right." Slowly he stood up, his gaze direct, his voice low and intense. "Plan to attend, Mr. Cook. You will have your last dance with your wife, tomorrow, at precisely midnight."

Cook's face reflected the war going on in him between skepticism and yearning. Tattoo urged, "You should trust the boss. It _will_ happen. We promise."

John Cook smiled at last and said gently, "I'm looking forward to it. Thank you."

All the way back, Leslie couldn't erase the memory of that last expression from her mind; she kept seeing the desperate hope and loneliness in Cook's faded blue eyes. "I hope you can, Mr. Roarke, I really do. I think he misses his wife the way I miss my mother."

Roarke glanced back at her as they made their way toward the main house and laid a hand on her shoulder. "Would you like to be there when it happens?"

"Oh, you better believe it," she said, and he grinned.

"Then you will. For the moment, however, we need to attend to Miss Anthony; I'm sure she's growing impatient."

Adele Anthony was sitting in a club chair, looking ill at ease, huddled into herself a bit as if she were cold. Somehow Leslie was reminded of her first day on the island, the way she herself had hunched in one of those very chairs, feeling like a homeless person who'd managed to crash a very exclusive party. Adele returned their greetings with a murmured hello, glancing at them from under her closely cut curls, and waited till they had all been seated before even looking up properly.

"So," Roarke said, "I must say we are quite curious as to how you came to make this request, Miss Anthony."

Adele shrugged. "My brothers and sisters insisted upon giving me that fantasy, Mr. Roarke. I guess they think they owe me something for taking care of them all these years, but…but they didn't know what a busy man you are, so…I'll just come back later." She arose as if to leave. "Like in a year or two." Tattoo and Leslie traded an astonished glance.

"And disappoint your brothers and sisters?" countered Roarke.

"I'm sorry," Adele sighed, resuming her seat. "It's just that I feel so…so _weird_ about—"

Tattoo broke in, "About being waited on by somebody else for a change?" Adele nodded sheepishly, meeting his gaze only with an effort.

Roarke smiled, arose and rounded the desk, leaning against the front of it while Leslie, in her usual chair, tucked one leg under her and rested one side of her head in her hand. Roarke studied Adele with a smile. "There is something more, isn't there?"

Reluctantly Adele conceded. "This is gonna sound dumb, but…I-I'd kinda like…" She stopped, let out a self-conscious chuckle, and finally concluded, "To be a queen."

Tattoo's eyes widened, and Leslie blurted out, "Wow!" before she could stop herself.

"A queen?" Tattoo exclaimed.

"I mean, if it's not too much bother," Adele said hastily.

"Oh, it's no bother at all," Roarke assured her. "Do you have any preference as to which country?"

Adele's eyes gleamed with a new eagerness, while Leslie bolted up out of her chair, hoping for something really exotic. "Well," Adele said, "I've always wondered what France would be like." Tattoo grinned broadly at that, although Leslie was a little disappointed; it seemed people always chose the predictable places, like France or England.

"France," Roarke agreed. "Splendid choice. Tattoo, will you get my bow and the arrow next to it?"

"Sure, boss," Tattoo said and crossed the room, departing by the hallway down to the kitchen; Leslie stood up and leaned on the corner of the desk with one hand, watching.

"Miss Anthony, will you come with me, please?" Roarke requested. "Leslie, if you like, you may come along." She was more than eager to do so; with the end of her school career finally in sight, she wanted to absorb as much of Roarke's business as she possibly could, insofar as he allowed her to do so.

Tattoo returned within thirty seconds, bearing the items Roarke had asked for. "Ah, thank you, Tattoo. This is a very special bow and arrow, Miss Anthony. Very rare, very… very unusual." Leslie could see why: the bow seemed to be made from silver and the arrow of gold. Adele Anthony was no less impressed.

"Oh, I used to take archery in high school," she exclaimed, eyes lighting with memory.

"Oh!" Roarke said and smiled. "Then do you think you could shoot the arrow out of that window over there?" He indicated the middle of the three shuttered windows on the southern side of the room that overlooked the side yard. The lower shutters stood open and the windowpane had been raised. Leslie shot Roarke a look; as far as she knew they hadn't been in those positions earlier that morning, but she did have to admit that she hadn't really been looking, either.

Adele peered at the window, then stared at Roarke. "Are you joking?"

"Oh, absolutely not," Roarke said firmly. "When you release the arrow, your fantasy will begin." Leslie caught Tattoo's eye; this was new to her, starting out a fantasy in this particular fashion. She wondered whether it had anything to do with the fact that it was the weekend just before Valentine's Day, and Cupid having a bow and arrow; then she decided it might just be a little too farfetched. But then again, you never knew with her guardian.

Tattoo had a little more aplomb than she did. "Go ahead, trust us," he urged, and both Roarke and Adele looked oddly at him. He cleared his throat and corrected, "I mean, trust the boss." At that Leslie couldn't help but grin.

Roarke gave him one fast, remonstrating look, then turned back to Adele and handed her the bow and arrow. He motioned Leslie to step aside along with him and Tattoo, and they all watched Adele raise the bow, take careful aim and draw it back, and then let fly. The arrow sailed across the room, a little higher than Adele had probably intended, and punched a hole in the windowpane, then vanished on the other side—at exactly the same second Adele herself disappeared.

For a moment no one moved or spoke, except for Roarke. "There," he said with satisfaction. "Leslie, if you'll see to the mail, please?"

"But Mr. Roarke, where'd she go?" Leslie protested, moving for the desk on automatic pilot as she spoke. "And what about the broken window?"

"What broken window?" Roarke asked, looking genuinely surprised.

"That one," Leslie said a little impatiently. "The one Adele Anthony shot the arrow through." She pointed behind her, then turned to follow her finger—and saw that the pane was intact and pristine. For a second or two she gaped, then rolled her eyes and threw her hands in the air. "Oh, never mind."

Roarke and Tattoo both laughed, and Tattoo approached the desk as well. "What about Leslie's first question?" he prompted. "Where did Miss Anthony go?"

"Ah, yes," Roarke said, taking the chair behind the desk and reaching for his date book. "She has gone to France, exactly as she requested."

"There's a little problem with that," Leslie remarked with sham delicacy. "France isn't a monarchy anymore. So what part of France's past did you send her to?"

Tattoo seemed to be stricken with an idea in the middle of her speech, and drew him-self up with horror as she finished. "Boss," he blurted, hard on the heels of Leslie's last word, "don't tell me you sent her back to the French Revolution. _Please."_

Roarke looked up with a serene expression. "Very well, I won't tell you."

Tattoo shared one aghast look with Leslie, then cried, "Boss! Don't you know what happened to Marie Antoinette?" When he had Roarke's full attention, he drew his index finger across his throat and made a _skrrrrkkk_ noise. "Just in case you forgot."

"I didn't forget at all, Tattoo," Roarke said.

"I don't want to sound like an old nag or something," Leslie ventured, "but it doesn't seem very fair. I mean, think about it, Mr. Roarke." Her voice gained conviction and a little volume as she warmed to her subject. "She came here because her brothers and sisters gave her this vacation—she didn't come up with it on her own, you know. And then she almost left here because she thought you were too busy to bother with her silly little fantasy. So you go ahead and let her choose what she wants to be and what country she wants to go back to—and then you do _that! _ That's not fair at all! She just wanted to have somebody else take the orders for a change. It wasn't even her idea in the first place!"

Roarke had settled back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest, watching her. "Have you quite finished, Leslie Susan?" he inquired dryly.

"I've tried to make my point, yes," she fired back.

"I have to agree with her, boss," Tattoo spoke up. "You know Miss Anthony could get killed. After all, that's what happened to Marie Antoinette—and you're the one who's al-ways saying you can't change history."

Roarke got a look about him that Leslie wasn't sure she'd ever seen before. "The faith you two have in me is simply earth-shattering," he remarked with pure sarcasm. "Are you both so thoroughly convinced that I would allow a guest to perish in the course of his or her fantasy? Has neither of you grown to know me well enough by this time that you believe I would be so cavalier and unthinking?"

"Well, then, why'd you turn her into Marie Antoinette?" Tattoo persisted.

"Please don't say something like 'What's a fantasy without a little excitement?' or 'I can't change a fantasy once it starts'," Leslie warned. "That one's your favorite."

"It has nothing whatsoever to do with changing her fantasy," Roarke said a little severely. "And it so happens that I had a reason for sending her back to the French Revolution and allowing her to be Marie Antoinette for a weekend."

Tattoo and Leslie looked at each other, equally skeptical. "This'll be good," Tattoo remarked, folding his own arms over his chest.

The look Roarke shot him made Leslie secretly glad she hadn't been the one who said it. "Perhaps you two missed it, so allow me to refresh your memories. The young lady is shy, rarely—if ever—socializes, and works hard all day, every day, as a waitress. As you so astutely pointed out a moment ago, Leslie, she was even willing to defer her fantasy for a good year or more because she thought I was too busy."

"So?" Tattoo demanded.

"So," Roarke retorted, with a put-upon air that said he was extremely annoyed at having to have this conversation at all, "you will see that she isn't willing to take a stand. She has spent so much of her life doing for others, she no longer does anything for herself. In case you don't recall, she even introduced her own secret wish for her fantasy as 'dumb'."

"So what you mean is, she doesn't have any backbone," Leslie offered.

"I might not go quite that far, but yes, something akin to that. She is self-effacing to a literal fault; she can even be said to neglect her own well-being in favor of that of others. I felt she needed a challenge, something to wake her up, if you will. And, in clear and obvious contrast to the two of you, I feel she is very much up to that challenge."

"Isn't that kind of like a variation on that dopey old 'we have to get the shy one out of her shell' business?" Leslie asked, scowling. "I always hated that. I mean, you have no idea how much. I got that all the time before I came here, and it wasn't even my fault—you know it was because of—"

"We have been over that before, Leslie, and trust me, I haven't forgotten the smallest detail," Roarke assured her. "You may assume what you like; I certainly wouldn't presume to dictate to you what your opinion should be. But I believe that Miss Anthony will come to realize that she can do things for others without neglecting herself. Regardless of what the two of you may think, that is my rationale, and may I remind you both that in the end, this is my island; I am in charge; I make and enforce the rules; and I do what I feel is in the best interest of my guests. _All_ my guests." This last, he delivered at Tattoo with a sharp look.

"Ours is not to question why," Leslie recited, robot-like. "Ours is but to do or die."

"Which is what happened to Marie Antoinette, and that's what might happen to Miss Anthony," Tattoo reiterated.

The stare Roarke was aiming at Tattoo became a glare. "Tattoo, you have rounds to make; I strongly suggest that you begin making them, lest you find yourself depending on your own innate talents to earn your living." Tattoo got his meaning, scowled, but nodded and pivoted on his heel, departing at a brisk pace. "As for you, Leslie Susan, I believe I have already asked you to attend to the latest batch of mail—or have you somehow magically disposed of it during the course of our conversation?"

"No, I don't have the power to do that," Leslie muttered, using both hands to scrape scattered envelopes across the desk toward her. "At least not yet." She felt Roarke's stare drilling her skull, but kept her head down and began sorting out mail. _I know one thing—if he goes back to see how she's doing, I'm going with him, and I'm __not__ taking no for an answer!_

‡ ‡ ‡

The rest of Saturday passed without incident, even the luau. Adele Anthony, of course, was still mired in the French Revolution and wearing Marie Antoinette's crown; but John Cook didn't appear there either, and Leslie wondered if that meant he was in his bun-galow, wishing his wife were there and yearning for the promised dance that would occur the following evening. As she wandered down the buffet choosing items for her plate, she caught sight of Camille and Michiko sitting across the clearing, both with heads bent low over books. Astonished, she threaded her way through groups of vacationers to join them. "Hey, you guys, what're you doing here?" she asked.

They both looked up and broke into smiles at sight of her. "We didn't think you'd be here," Camille said and slapped the ground beside her a few times. "C'mon, sit down."

"What kind of fantasies are you having this weekend?" Michiko asked, then covered her mouth. "Forget I asked that. You'll be telling us on Monday anyway."

Leslie grinned. "It's okay. They're both magical. We have a time-travel one and a really romantic one. Don't know how they'll work out yet. So what're you doing here?"

"Homework," Camille grumbled. "We both have too many brothers and sisters at home to concentrate there, so we had to come over here."

"Oh, c'mon…there's only Reiko at your house, Michiko," Leslie said.

"No, Toki's around too. Came back from school for the weekend. I have to admit, I can't wait for a dorm room. I might actually be able to study properly then." Michiko sighed, then looked up. "I wish you were going too, Leslie. I always figured it could be fun to share a dorm room at the same college."

Leslie shrugged. "Mr. Roarke and I talked about it last summer, and I told him the only thing I really want to do is be part of his business. I love this place. I can't wait to graduate so I can be part of it full-time. I told him that it's really all I ever wanted to do al-most ever since I first came here." She thought for a few seconds while her friends watched. "I guess I really realized it the first time that weekend those two goons kidnapped Tattoo and Mr. Roarke needed some kind of assistance. I mean, I didn't know _any_thing, and he still asked me to help him. And he appreciated it even though I couldn't do much. So I think that's when I knew what I wanted to do."

"I wish I was that certain," Camille said and blew out her breath. "I've thought and thought about it, but I just don't know. Nothing sounds really interesting. But my parents say I really ought to get a college degree, in case I ever need it. Mom keeps telling me nothing's guaranteed, I might have to support myself for years before I get married, and probably afterward too, y'know? All that junk. But what good's it gonna do me if I don't even know what I want to get a degree in? I'm not saying I don't want to work, I just don't know what really grabs me. Nothing _gets_ me, see what I mean? Not enough that I want to spend my whole life doing it, or enough to make me sing and dance around the room because the alarm clock went off and, yippee-skip, I get to go to work today." She singsonged the last seven words in a mocking tone that made Michiko and Leslie laugh. "The rest of you seem to have it all worked out. Leslie, you're staying here and working with Mr. Roarke, and Michi-ko, you're planning on a stage career. And with that voice, it'd be a crime if you didn't make it on Broadway. Myeko knows what she wants, and so does Lauren. Crap, even Maureen said she knows she's inheriting her mother's catering business someday."

"Maybe you'll figure it out while you're in college," Leslie suggested. "Maybe some-thing you never even heard of right now will pop up when you hit college, and you'll think it sounds really cool and decide to go for that."

"Maybe," Camille said, but Leslie knew she was being humored and didn't press the issue. "All I know is, right now I'm feeling like I'm about to get launched off into outer space. The big, black, empty void."

"We still have three months before graduation," Michiko said, grinning at her. "Don't go crazy till you get down to the wire. So Leslie, are you on duty, or just hanging around?"

"Sort of both," Leslie said. "I've been mostly working on mail all day, and I love doing that, but that was all Mr. Roarke gave me to do, so I started getting bored. I volunteered for luau duty just to get out of the house. But our fantasizers aren't here, and most of the time nothing happens here anyway, so it's make-work."

"Mail was all you've been doing? How come?" Camille asked.

Leslie shrugged. "Tattoo and I disagreed with Mr. Roarke about one of the fantasies, and he got all offended and sent Tattoo out to do a ton of rounds, and stuck me with all the mail that's come in for the past week, practically. He didn't even go to check on the time-travel fantasy, and he always does that at least once." She shrugged. "Course, the weekend's not over yet. If he does go back, I'm making him take me with him."

"Good for you," Camille said and laughed. "Show him you're not just a mail clerk."

"Are you going with Mr. Roarke and Tattoo to that big Valentine's dance they're having tomorrow?" Michiko asked. "You said one of the fantasies is romantic, and I figured it had to involve the dance."

"Yeah, it does, actually," Leslie said. "I guess I'm going, but thank goodness I don't have to worry about getting a date, because I'll be 'on duty', like you said."

"I'm going with Steve," said Camille, referring to her boyfriend, Steve Matsumoto, whom she had been dating since shortly after the girls had begun their eleventh-grade year. "At least, I'm going if I can get all this stupid homework done. That's what I get for being out sick with a forty-eight-hour bug." She had been absent two days the past week of school, and had fallen behind in a few classes as a result.

"I guess maybe I better let you get back to it, then," Leslie said, rising. "You guys want something to eat while you're here? I can bring you back plates."

Michiko refused, but Camille admitted to being hungry and agreed readily. Leslie got a list of things she wanted, went off and filled a plate, and brought it back; she was just handing it to Camille when she caught the unmistakable flash of a white suit. At the same time Michiko sat up ramrod-straight. "Mr. Roarke!"

"Good evening, Michiko, Camille," Roarke greeted them and turned to Leslie. "How are things going here?"

"It's been quiet," Leslie said. "Same as always. I saw Camille and Michiko here and just sat down to talk with them for a while. Is something up?"

"Nothing at all," he said. "I merely wanted to thank you for finally clearing away the backlog of mail we had. Also, it's nearly nine o'clock, so I think it's time you came back to the house with me."

"Is it really that late?" exclaimed Michiko, leaping to her feet. "I'd better get home. I don't want my parents worrying about me."

Camille grinned wryly. "If my parents want me around, it'll be to babysit the four pests. Too much homework for that."

"Homework?" repeated Roarke, having bid Michiko good night and watched her hurry away in the direction of the nearest trail. "You're doing homework here? You surprise me; I would have thought the music and the chatter would be unbearably distracting."

"The music and chatter are nothing on a bunch of almost-four-year-old kids who keep wandering in asking you to play with them and wanting to see what you're doing, and asking why you're doing it," Camille noted.

Roarke chuckled. "Ah, I see. In that case, good luck, and if your parents call, I'll let them know where you are. Have a good evening."

"Thanks, Mr. Roarke. See you Monday, Leslie," Camille called, and Leslie waved at her as she followed Roarke down another trail.

"So did you have a good visit with your friends?" Roarke inquired after a few minutes.

Leslie rolled her eyes to herself; she should have known. "Yeah, we talked a little while. Not all that long, really. Mostly about school and college and so on." She cleared her throat. "Um…listen, Mr. Roarke…I know you're mad at me and Tattoo because we couldn't understand why you sent Adele Anthony back to the French Revolution and made her be Marie Antoinette. But I hope you're not so mad that you won't let me help you out tomorrow if you need somebody."

Roarke paused and peered at her over his shoulder. "Did you think that?" He laughed, to her surprise. "My suggestion is that you get as much sleep tonight as you can; you're going to be up early in the morning, after all, and there won't be much time for breakfast." He winked at her, and she grinned back and jogged to catch up with him.


	13. Chapter 13

§ § § - February 13, 1983

Roarke was as good as his word and rousted Leslie out of bed at six on Sunday morning, rushing both of them through breakfast—a piece of fruit in his case, a wrapped breakfast bar in hers—before taking her out with him on morning rounds. The sun was still low in the eastern sky, and Leslie had a hard time believing anyone could be up at this hour—at least until she happened to notice a figure staring into one of the little turquoise pools that dotted random parts of the island.

She gestured through the trees, half turning to speak to Roarke, who was several paces behind her, as if allowing her to decide where they roamed. "Mr. Roarke, isn't that Mr. Cook over there?" she asked.

Roarke caught up and followed her gaze. "Yes, it is," he said.

They drifted forward and watched John Cook meander around some flowering tropical bushes to stand at the very edge of the pool, staring morosely into its depths. After a moment Cook's eyes widened and he exclaimed softly, almost pleadingly, "Carol?" Leslie wondered what the bereft old man saw in the water.

Roarke evidently decided it was time to alert him to their presence. "Mr. Cook," he said in greeting, "you're up very early."

Cook turned to look at him and Leslie as if he had never encountered human beings before, but she could see that his eyes were wet. He blinked away his tears and put on the same cheerful façade he'd worn the previous morning when disembarking from the plane. "As a matter of fact, Mr. Roarke, I didn't sleep at all," he confessed.

"Is something wrong?" Roarke asked.

"No, nothing. I'm fine. Beautiful morning, don't you think?"

"Have you ever stopped to think," Roarke said, cutting to the chase, "that one of the reasons you are so successful in helping your patients to heal is because you listen so care-fully to their inner feelings?"

Cook shrugged. "I suppose that may be true, but—"

"And how are you going to heal yourself," broke in Roarke, "if you never share your sorrow with someone who's willing to listen?"

Cook looked at him as if he were crazy and frowned dismissively. "People want to be cheered up, Mr. Roarke, not burdened."

"Is that true? Or is it that you know only how to give help, and have yet to learn how to receive it?" Cook stared at him, and Roarke concluded gently, "It's time for you to start thinking of yourself."

Cook's stare held for a few more seconds before he nodded once, slowly, and turned away to stare at the pool again. Roarke laid a hand on Leslie's shoulder and murmured, "It's best we let him have time to think about that. Let's go, we have other places to be."

By the time they returned to the main house, it was mid-morning and Leslie was very thirsty; she talked the kitchen staff out of a tall glass of cherry juice—something of a rarity on this tropical island—and took it back to the study with her. Tattoo was there, watching Roarke while he spoke with someone on the phone. After some conversation, he hung up and took in both his assistant and his ward. "I am afraid it's no use. Mrs. Wilson insists on departing on the noon plane."

"That's too bad," Tattoo said, shaking his head. "I hoped she'd stay. She's in even worse shape than Mr. Cook."

"Who's Mrs. Wilson?" Leslie asked.

"She arrived here Friday afternoon," Roarke said. "She is a recent widow, still grieving deeply for her husband, Frank. Some friends insisted she come here for a getaway, to dis-tract her, but she claims that nothing can make her forget even for a little while, and she feels the best thing to do is return home." He looked at the phone as if Mrs. Wilson's photo were pasted to the receiver, and shook his head. "Tattoo, would you and Leslie kindly go to her bungalow and see that she has some help with her luggage and getting to the plane?"

"Sure, boss," Tattoo said.

"Leave that here, Leslie," Roarke said, indicating her juice glass. "You can finish it when you return. By then the new mail will be here." He laughed when she let out a groan. "Consider this a break, if you prefer. Thank you both."

"I wonder why Mrs. Wilson didn't ask for the same fantasy as Mr. Cook," Leslie re-marked to Tattoo on their way over. "To have a dance with her husband on Valentine's eve."

"Maybe she just didn't think of it," Tattoo said, shrugging. "I wish we could help her, but I guess you can't help someone when they don't want it. I think we better hurry."

Martha Wilson was a slender, frail-looking elderly lady who dressed a bit old-fashioned, at least in Leslie's view; but the clothing suited her. She smiled at Leslie when Tattoo introduced her. "Thank you for your help, Leslie."

"It's too bad you couldn't stay longer," she ventured.

"Well, I have plenty of things I need to do at home," Mrs. Wilson murmured vaguely, glancing around the main room. "I think I've packed everything. Can we go?"

Tattoo and Leslie looked at each other but said nothing, merely agreed quietly. They each lifted a suitcase and toted it out to the rover Leslie had driven to the bungalows; she hefted the bags into the back while Tattoo went back to assist Mrs. Wilson with her third and final bag. Just then, John Cook appeared from around the bend in the lane, heading for the bungalow and staring in disbelief at the loaded rover. He saw Tattoo and Mrs. Wilson at the top of the steps and almost ran over to them. "What…you're not leaving!"

"Yes, John, I am," said Mrs. Wilson, refusing to meet Cook's gaze, her voice cool.

"I was up all night, thinking," he began, as if in protest.

Finally she looked directly at him, expression softening a bit. "I—I'm sorry I said what I did. I was just so afraid, and I…" She shrugged helplessly. "I felt so awkward."

"I did too," Cook said, entreating. "I haven't dated since I was in my twenties and I'm a bit rusty. When you've lived with one person all your life—as you know—it's hard to let go of old habits." As he spoke, Leslie noticed that Mrs. Wilson was fidgeting and fluttering with a lacy handkerchief that she kept pulling out of and stuffing back into her purse, while Tattoo looked back and forth between them, a worried frown on his round face.

"Well, I'm afraid it's impossible," Mrs. Wilson said flatly.

"It won't hurt to try it," Tattoo offered, voice optimistic.

Mrs. Wilson blinked once and peered at him curiously. "Are you playing Cupid, Tattoo?" she asked with a tiny, amused smile.

Tattoo grinned. "Why not?"

Mrs. Wilson glanced at Cook, then back at Tattoo, and then, to Leslie's pure amaze-ment, she capitulated, still smiling. "Perhaps I will stay."

Tattoo brightened. "You won't regret it. Leslie! Bring the bags back!" he called, and Leslie laughed, promptly tugging one suitcase out of the back of the car.

She lugged it past Cook and Mrs. Wilson, who spoke in soft tones; though she longed to hear what they might be saying, she knew better than to linger. However, inside the bun-galow, she asked, "Tattoo…what about Mr. Cook's fantasy? You know, to dance with his wife at the Valentine's dance tonight? Will he still get it? Will he still _want_ to?"

Tattoo turned to her with the mysterious smile Roarke always seemed to bring out when he didn't want to tell her anything. She hated that smile even more than she hated his sphinxlike expression when a guest looked to him for information Roarke wasn't giving out. "I guess we'll see," the Frenchman mused lightly, and promptly left the bungalow to get the remaining suitcase out of the car.

"I _so_ hate it when you do that," Leslie muttered in annoyance, toting the suitcase into the bedroom. "I think I'm gonna tell Mr. Roarke on you."

As she reached the half-open front door to leave, she heard Mrs. Wilson say hesi-tantly, "Mr. Roarke mentioned something about a dance tonight…the Fantasy Island Valen-tine's Ball. Would it be too forward of me to…ask you to be my escort?"

_Whoa,_ she thought. _There goes that fantasy! And I really thought Mr. Roarke could bring back a ghost! _ She waited for Cook to respond, but for a long moment he was silent. Then Mrs. Wilson spoke again: "Oh, I'm sorry…that was insensitive."

"No, no, it was flattering," Cook protested. "I'd be honored, Martha." Mrs. Wilson let out an embarrassed little chuckle, and Leslie turned away from the door, wondering how fast a grieving widow or widower could fall in love again, and whether it was merely a desperate attempt to alleviate a lonely existence. As if shown a vision, she shuddered and tried to divert her mind to something else.

‡ ‡ ‡

About three that afternoon, Roarke arose from the perpetual paperwork on the desk and smiled at Leslie. "It's time for me to bring Miss Anthony back from her fantasy," he said, "so if you would take any calls, I would appreciate it."

She nodded, but couldn't resist saying, "I just hope you're bringing her back in one piece, if you know what I mean."

The return look he gave her wasn't the dirty or exasperated one she had expected; he merely smiled again before retreating into the time-travel room and closing the door securely behind him. She made a face and resumed going through mail.

Roarke swiftly changed into a knee-length red uniform coat, slim black trousers and knee-high black boots, and donned a ponytailed gray wig and a black tricorn hat outlined in white. Then, checking the pocket watch hidden within the vest he still wore under the red coat, he stepped through another door on the far side of the room and emerged into a crowded, dirty street filled with shouting, furious people. They hardly seemed to notice him as he wove his way through the throngs till he reached a waiting horse and carriage. His timing was perfect: two women, both wearing voluminous gowns and two-foot-high white wigs over their own hair, stepped out of a nearby door and climbed a few steps to street level. One of the women wore a crown in her wig and a huge, gaudy necklace; she kept throwing her companion smug looks. _Ah, so Ms. Antoinette survives yet,_ Roarke reflected, keeping his face averted. _Leslie and Tattoo should be glad to see that._

The carriage jerked into motion when Roarke touched the whip lightly to the horses' backs, and people parted almost automatically, shouting threats, epithets and insults at the women seated behind him. He could faintly hear their arguing, until at last Adele Anthony's voice rose a little above the rest: "Put a sock in it!" He grinned secretly at that.

The young man escorting them said little until they had cleared the city and reached the open, tree-studded countryside; then he grabbed a second whip and put the horses into a full-on gallop. The chase was on, and young François kept an eye out behind them; they were being pursued by a couple of horse-mounted guards and the king himself, according to his reports. But after some time, the king fell behind and eventually disappeared altogether; a few moments later the two guards wheeled their horses around and retreated. Shortly thereafter there was a loud grunt, and the carriage suddenly felt perceptibly lighter; Roarke sneaked a hurried glance behind him and saw that one of the women had launched herself out of the fleeing carriage. Again he smiled, making no move to stop or even slow down.

François clearly didn't trust their new freedom just yet, and insisted they cover a good bit more ground before he finally dared stop. Quietly Roarke set about unharnessing one of the horses while he listened to the ensuing conversation.

"I don't understand," François said. "If you're not the queen, who are you?"

"Oh, François, never mind that. Let's…let's just spend the few minutes we have left on…important things." There was a moment's silence, then the soft sounds of a kiss breaking up, and Roarke found himself smiling once more.

"The driver will take you someplace safe," François said gently. "But since the revolution's begun, I have to go back." He pulled in a fortifying breath. "I have this terrible feeling we'll never see each other again."

"I believe you may be right, François," she murmured a little hoarsely.

"I'll never forget you," he promised. "It's impossible to forget anything or anyone truly…extraordinary." Once more he kissed her; then Roarke heard him approaching and turned just enough to give him a boost onto one of the horses. François blew a kiss behind him and then cantered slowly away, vanishing into the trees.

Only then did Roarke turn and meet a startled Adele Anthony's gaze. "Well done, Miss Anthony," he said with another smile. "Not only were you treated like a queen, you behaved like one." Slowly, Adele smiled, though he could see that she seemed to half regret the end of her fantasy.

He brought her back through the time-travel room, both still dressed in their French-Revolution-era finery, although Adele removed the wig the moment they stepped into the study. "That thing's hot," she complained, casting Roarke an apologetic glance. "And I keep automatically ducking every time I go through a doorway."

Both he and Leslie laughed, and she stood up. "So what was it like being Marie Antoinette?" she wanted to know.

"Dangerous," Adele said promptly, but grinned. "On the other hand, I found out that when I really have to, I'll do anything that's necessary to survive." She looked at Roarke again. "No more trying to please everybody else at my own expense. That's what got me into so much trouble as Marie Antoinette. I only wanted to help the people by giving them food, but Louis and his mistress tricked me. And I let them get away with it over and over again, thinking they were on my side. I even signed Marie Antoinette's execution warrants because I didn't read the papers I was scrawling her name on!"

"Ouch," Leslie said, wincing with sympathy.

"Yup. So no more. Not that I'll stop doing for others, you know…"

"Of course not," Roarke said. "But you have learned that you must also look out for yourself as well. Have a care for your own best interests, and you will be better able to care for others who may need it."

Adele nodded. "Thanks for the lesson, Mr. Roarke. Um…what do I do with this dress? I have a feeling I'd get a lot of funny looks if I walked out in public wearing this."

Roarke chuckled and said, "I had a change of clothing brought in for you. Just step back into that room to make the change, and you may leave the dress on the back of the chair you find there. Afterward, you can relax and enjoy yourself in whatever way you wish; we have many amenities you may find attractive."

"That sounds great—I will, thanks," Adele said, beaming, and shut herself back in the time-travel room. Leslie surveyed her guardian's attire.

"You look like a lobsterback," she remarked.

"A what?" said Roarke, eyebrows shooting up.

She grinned. "A redcoat. Funny how the French and American Revolutions both involved guys wearing scarlet uniforms. Obviously vanity took precedence over camouflage back in those days."

"Indeed," Roarke said, grinning back. "Suppose you get back to that mail; it might be nice to clear at least part of my desk before tonight's Valentine dance."

‡ ‡ ‡

A beautiful new sunken lounge had been added to the pond restaurant during the previous summer, its walls fashioned to look like the lava cliffs of so many of the islands that dotted the South Pacific; large potted tropical plants stood along the walls, their ranks broken here and there by secluded little tables for two. Two flights of steps led down onto the enormous dance floor, which also boasted some tables scattered here and there; Japanese lanterns and candle centerpieces provided a romantic light, and a bar fronted by five or six stools stood alongside the far end of the dance floor. The lounge had been decorated by large red-and-white heart shapes on wires, stuck into the soil of some of the pots.

Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie stood sentinel at a side entrance, denoted by a huge, frilly pink heart through which new arrivals walked to get in. She was feeling elegant: she wore a long white gown with a scooped neckline and half-length sleeves, and around one wrist was clasped an elegant ruby bracelet that Roarke had allowed her to borrow from his stock of costumes. In her ears hung matching ruby earrings. She had a red-rose corsage pinned to her left shoulder, to match the roses that Roarke and Tattoo sported on their lapels.

John Cook and Martha Wilson arrived together, both looking quite happy; they all greeted one another, and Tattoo put in, "You look beautiful!"

"Thank you, Tattoo," Mrs. Wilson said, beaming.

"Uh, Tattoo, will you show Mr. Cook to table four, please," Roarke directed, "that is, if I may ask Mrs. Wilson to dance with me?"

"I'll wait for you at the table," Cook said graciously, and Mrs. Wilson smiled a little self-consciously. Tattoo beckoned at Leslie, and requested that Cook follow him; they moved off to the designated table, where Tattoo pulled out a chair for their guest.

"Have a good time, Mr. Cook," he said, and Cook thanked him and took his seat. Once again Tattoo gestured at Leslie.

"Come on, we have more guests to let in. Didn't you say your friend Camille was coming with her boyfriend?" he asked.

"She's supposed to," said Leslie, "but I think that depended on whether she managed to finish all the homework she had to catch up on from being sick last week."

"Oh, I see. Well, I hope she makes it," Tattoo remarked. "Come on, back to the Entry Heart." He had dubbed it that early on, making fun of the corniness of the whole thing, but he and Leslie had taken some care to keep from using the term around Roarke.

"Do you really think Mr. Cook's going to get that dance with his wife?" Leslie asked pensively on their way there. "I mean, that was his fantasy, and I honestly don't think he ever expected to meet Mrs. Wilson."

Tattoo shrugged. "I'm sure the boss has got something in mind, but don't ask me what it is. He doesn't tell _me_ anything." He threw her a look as he said this last, and she snorted; this was often her own complaint. They both laughed and took up their stations.

Meantime, Roarke was making conversation on the dance floor. "I'm glad you decided to stay with us until the weekend is over, Mrs. Wilson."

"So am I, Mr. Roarke," she said. "I feel hopeful for the first time in a long while. I never thought I'd meet anyone who…"

"Who could make you feel happy and complete again?" Roarke offered, smiling.

"Yes," she agreed, chuckling up at him, and they continued their dancing; Roarke let his gaze stray to the table where Cook sat alone, and took in his wistful, faraway expression. As he watched, Cook fingered a flower in the centerpiece, stroked the white rosebud that decorated his lapel, checked his watch, and then twisted in his chair to look at the clock behind the bar. It showed just past nine-thirty. Roarke smiled to himself and, when the current song ended, escorted Martha Wilson directly back to Cook's table, wishing them both a pleasant evening before returning to join Leslie and Tattoo.

Leslie was off to one side chatting with Camille and her escort, a good-looking young man of Japanese descent. "Welcome, Steve and Camille," Roarke said, breaking up the teens' conversation. "I hope you'll enjoy the dance."

"Oughta be fun," Steve Matsumoto said, taking in the attendees, "but I have a feeling Camille and I are the youngest ones here."

"Oh, not at all; there are several other couples about your age here as well," Roarke observed. "I'm sure you'll find them if you look around a bit."

"We've seen at least four other couples from school," Leslie said. "Frida's friend Michelle Stockwell showed up with another guy from Coral Island, but she's the only one I know by name. Maybe you'll recognize them, Steve."

Steve shrugged. "Maybe. Anyway, Mr. Roarke, thanks for opening up the dance to high-school seniors. The Coral Island kids complain all the time about how we don't have proms at F.I. High, so if they don't come to this dance, then they're just being stubborn."

Roarke laughed. "You'll find refreshments at the bar that are suitable for young people," he said. "Just ask when you are ready." Camille and Steve agreed and ventured away onto the dance floor.

Guests finally stopped arriving around ten, and Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie had a chance to take a short break and sit down. Leslie straightened the cloth on the table where they sat; it was divided into quarters, with two colored red and the other two white, and each quarter printed with a large heart—red on the white sections and vice versa. "Where'd you get these tablecloths, Mr. Roarke?" she wondered.

"Oh, I can get anything and everything I need on relatively short notice, when neces-sary," he said, smiling. "Why? Do you want to keep some of these cloths for some future Valentine's party you're thinking of holding?"

She laughed. "No, just wondering." She scanned the dance floor, resting her chin in one hand, and both Roarke and Tattoo caught the faintly wistful look that crept into her eyes. Eventually she murmured, "It'd be nice if a boy asked me to dance, even just once."

Roarke exchanged a glance with Tattoo, then inquired, "Well, in the absence of a boy your age, might I suffice as a substitute?"

Leslie giggled. "You'll do," she teased, and they laughed, promising Tattoo they would be back shortly before Roarke led her onto the dance floor. They could see Cook and Mrs. Wilson at their table, talking quietly, laughing a little now and then.

"So…tell me something, Mr. Roarke," Leslie began, "what about Mr. Cook? All he wanted was a last dance with his wife. But here he is with Mrs. Wilson, and they look like they're really enjoying themselves. So is he getting his fantasy after all?"

Roarke watched Cook and Mrs. Wilson for some ten or fifteen seconds before he replied. "I daresay that's up to Mr. Wilson."

There was nothing she could say to that, so she nodded a couple of times in acknowledgement before falling silent. Then Roarke asked her something about school, and they made small talk before the song ended and they rejoined Tattoo.

Through the evening, the three of them played host; Tattoo and Leslie went onto the dance floor for a round, and then Steve Matsumoto surprised Leslie by asking her for a dance as well. "Camille said she's okay with it," he told her with a shy grin, "as long as it's only one dance. I guess she saw you sitting up here by yourself."

"She wasn't by herself at all," Tattoo said, sounding a bit offended.

Steve blushed, and Leslie laughed. "Aw, come on, Tattoo, you know what he meant. Thanks, Steve, I'd like that."

By eleven-thirty Leslie's classmates had all departed, since it was in fact a school night, and Leslie herself found it necessary to stifle a yawn now and then. She and Roarke and Tattoo retreated to the bar, where the men each had a small flute of champagne. Roarke, deciding that it was a special occasion, allowed her to have a miniature flute half filled with white wine, telling her to sip it. Thrilled at this, she agreed, and soon was taking the occasional small taste, following her guardian's lead and surveying the dance floor. The late hour had culled out some of the wearier ones, but the party was clearly not yet over; there seemed to be some sort of magic in the air, some kind of anticipation, though for what, Leslie had no idea.

She threw a glance at the clock at last, and was surprised to see that it read less than five minutes till midnight. Not far away, Cook and Mrs. Wilson were on the dance floor, moving gently along to a slow piano tune. She slid a glance in Roarke's direction, but he just stood watching, his face reflecting the lighthearted mood in the room.

The song ended, and slowly the dance floor emptied; Cook and Mrs. Wilson had a short conversation, and then began to make their way toward the entrance. Leslie's mouth dropped open: was he actually leaving? The question hung on the tip of her tongue, stymied only by Mrs. Wilson's sudden halt. Leslie heard her say something about leaving her purse, and watched the elderly lady make her way back to retrieve it.

"Boss, I'm gonna say good night to Mrs. Wilson," Tattoo said then.

"By all means," Roarke agreed, and Tattoo slipped off his stool and went to table number four to intercept Mrs. Wilson.

When he was gone, Leslie leaned over and whispered, "What about Mr. Cook?"

He glanced at her, but said nothing: and a few seconds later, Cook caught Roarke's eye, clearly sending a message. Roarke raised one finger and looked back at the clock, which now read exactly midnight. The second hand ticked toward the hour—and stopped.

Leslie turned and noticed that all action slowed and then halted entirely, as if the moment had been frozen in a huge three-dimensional photograph. Over the slowing, fading sounds rose a querulous voice. "John?"

Leslie gasped to herself as every person in the room faded out of sight, leaving her, Roarke and Cook the only humans there. Again the voice called out: "John? John?" Cook stood staring, his face acquiring a deep sadness that raised a lump in Leslie's throat. He slowly turned toward the sound of the entreating voice, and under the Entry Heart, a slightly plump woman, clad in a long pale-turquoise gown with a huge orchid corsage pinned to the shoulder, appeared to view. She approached him while he stared at her with-out moving; Leslie gulped, trying to flatten the lump, but it just got bigger. She felt Roarke slide an arm across her shoulders.

"Carol," Cook whispered at last, blinking back tears. "My darling…"

"Happy anniversary, John," said Carol Cook, smiling up at him. "This is our dance."

Their images wavered in Leslie's vision and she leaned against Roarke, squeezing the tears out of her eyes so she could see properly. They both watched in silence as John and Carol Cook, with the dance floor all to themselves, began to waltz.

But only twenty seconds in, Cook stopped. "I love you, Carol," he began. "And I always will." He pulled the ruby ring from his pocket and held it out to her.

"I know," she said softly, eyes shining at him as she worked it onto her finger. "It was the strength of your love that brought me here. But why are you looking so unhappy? Because of Martha?"

"Martha…oh yes," Cook murmured, and they resumed dancing.

"She's a lovely person," Carol said, smiling. "You know, you always had such exuberance for life. That's what made me so happy all those years we spent together. I think it would be a shame to lose that gift, hm?"

He stared at her in confusion. "What're you saying?"

"Oh John, if it had been you, wouldn't you want me to go on living? Be happy?"

He nodded. "Why yes, of course—"

"You see, darling, I want the same thing for you," she insisted earnestly. "Until yesterday, Martha had lost all hope, joy. You're giving that back to her, giving her a reason to live again." They had stopped moving, and now Carol glanced over his shoulder and added gently, "She needs you."

They both turned, slowly, to the table, where Martha Wilson blinked into and then back out of view. Leslie had managed to stop her tears by now, but she still had several knuckles rammed up against her mouth and was watching avidly. Roarke glanced at her, but returned his attention to his guest, waiting in silent concern.

Carol reached up and laid a gentle palm on her husband's face, turning his head back to face her. "You need her," she said. "Go to her." She put both hands on his shoulders, and for the first time her composure began to visibly slip. "You and I can wait until…later."

"I love you," Cook insisted. "I love you, Carol. Always, _always."_

"I love you too," she said softly, her voice breaking just slightly. "Forever." She began to sway a little in their abandoned waltz. "Be happy." Bracketing his face with her hands, she reached up and placed a little kiss on his lips. "Goodbye, my darling…" With this shaky farewell, she stepped back and retreated to the Entry Heart, from where she blew him a final kiss before vanishing. The music played to its conclusion.

Cook reluctantly faced Roarke, who said gently, "Your fantasy is over, Mr. Cook." He looked back at the clock, which began to tick again; all the remaining partygoers reappeared exactly as they had been standing earlier.

Cook began to cross the floor towards Mrs. Wilson; he paused once to give Roarke a questioning look, and Roarke nodded. As Cook continued on, everyone in the room came back to life and began to disperse, heading for the exits, voices filling the air. Leslie heaved a deep sigh beside Roarke and shook her head as if dispelling a shudder.

"Are you all right?" he asked quietly.

She nodded. "That was beautiful, Mr. Roarke," she murmured. They smiled at each other, and he patted her shoulder.

Martha Wilson joined Cook. "Are you ready?" she asked with a smile.

"Oh yes," he said, beaming back at her. "Yes, I'm ready, Martha." And they clasped hands, departing side by side.

Tattoo came back, smiling widely. "Boss, Mrs. Wilson is very happy," he said.

"I'm very glad," Roarke murmured.

"But you know, it's a shame Mr. Cook didn't get his fantasy to dance with his wife."

Leslie stared at him; Roarke played right along. "Yes," he murmured, watching Cook and Mrs. Wilson just passing under the Entry Heart on their way out. Roarke glanced at Tattoo, then caught Leslie's incredulous look and smiled with amusement. Unable to resist, she grinned back, feeling privileged to have been allowed to be a witness.

Tattoo turned back then and noticed the lingering tearstains on Leslie's cheeks. "What happened to you? What on earth were you crying for?" he asked.

She traded another glance with Roarke and then shrugged. "Oh…just something I saw a few minutes ago, that's all." She felt Roarke's torso heave a little with a silent chuckle, and allowed him to nudge her back onto her feet. She was more than ready to go home and get some sleep.

§ § § - February 14, 1983

Both John Cook and Martha Wilson looked very happy the following morning when they stepped out of the rover. "Mr. Roarke, Tattoo, Leslie…I want to thank you for everything," he said.

"When I came here, it was under protest," Mrs. Wilson put in. "I didn't even have a fantasy. But I had one fulfilled anyway."

"We both did," Cook noted and eyed Mrs. Wilson. "I think we might even be married when we get back to the mainland."

Leslie and Tattoo stared at each other in amazement for a second or two before Mrs. Wilson's voice recaptured their attention. "I'll let you know if we do."

Tattoo beamed. "I'm so glad everything went so well!" On that, the new couple departed amid thanks and farewells, heading for the plane dock as if they had a purpose.

Adele Anthony arrived in the second rover, clearly rested and recovered from her trip to the French Revolution. "Well, things looked kinda shaky there for a while, Mr. Roarke," she remarked, "but I think you have a satisfied customer after all."

Leslie blew out a huge, exaggerated sigh of relief, and the adults all laughed. Tattoo leaned forward and questioned with interest, "How did it go?"

"Would you believe it?" Adele marveled. "I met a man in my fantasy who said I was extraordinary! Me, a waitress from Des Moines!"

"That doesn't surprise me at all, Miss Anthony," Roarke said.

"I've been selling myself short my entire life, Mr. Roarke," Adele said solemnly. "I want to thank you for making me see that. From now on, the people I meet…they're in for a real treat." She grinned self-consciously, and Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie returned it, then said their goodbyes; Tattoo even kissed Adele's hand before she headed for the dock.

She had just vanished inside the charter plane's hatch when there came a honking sound, and they all looked around to see a tow truck pulling up nearby, with Tattoo's car attached to its winch. A stocky man got out of the front passenger seat and strode up to them, chewing ostentatiously on a chunk of gum. "Well, Mr. Terwilliger, did you enjoy your fantasy?" Roarke inquired amiably.

Terwilliger peered dubiously at him. "Oh, do you mean did I enjoy being king, wear-ing those funny clothes? And being walked all over by a baroness? And almost having my head chopped off?" He all but snorted. "Oh yeah, I loved it."

Roarke had a wry little half-smile on his face, but it rapidly morphed into incredulous astonishment when Tattoo spoke up. "You being Louis XVI was my idea," he said proudly. Leslie stared at him and then met Roarke's gaze for a half-second, barely checking a loud guffaw at his look before they both turned back to Terwilliger.

"Yeah," he said, evidently oblivious to the byplay, "I kinda thought so. Listen, Mr. Roarke—next time, please, don't pay me off with a fantasy for my services. How 'bout cold, hard cash?"

"By all means, Mr. Terwilliger," Roarke agreed, and Terwilliger nodded with satisfaction and set about removing Tattoo's car from the winch on his truck. Roarke waited till he was safely out of earshot before shooting Tattoo a look that meant business. "Your idea, was it?"

"Well, we needed a King Louis the Sixteenth, and I was…uh…kinda short this week," Tattoo admitted, only a little sheepish. "So I asked him what he thought about being a king for a weekend, and he said sure, it sounded great and he could use a break. So…"

"And you neglected to inform me," Roarke said ominously. "Incidentally, why did you require Mr. Terwilliger's services in the first place?"

Tattoo actually blushed and half hung his head. "Well…I was in a hurry, and I parked in front of the fire station door without thinking…"

Roarke raised a hand. "Stop right there—I don't think I want to hear any more." He sighed heavily, then looked at Leslie. "You'd better get to school."

"Yeah," Leslie agreed and shot Tattoo a wicked grin. "Especially since I've got a test on the French Revolution." The look he retaliated with sent her off to the waiting rover, laughing all the way there and hearing Roarke's answering chuckles behind her.

§ § § - June 25, 2008

"Did you really have a test on the French Revolution that day, my Rose?" Christian asked, grinning as if he knew better.

"Of course not," Leslie said, and everyone laughed. "Anyway, that was one of the sweeter ones. I admit to disappointment that Adele Anthony didn't get the guy. I was waiting for François to pop out of the trees, saying his real name was Frank Lewis or something, and that he just happened to also be from Des Moines, and could they sit together on the plane home, and all that. So when Father said François was actually part of the fantasy, it turned out to be one of the few dark spots that weekend."

"I still remember you crying again when you told us about Mr. Cook's fantasy that day at lunch," remarked Maureen. "Something about that one must have really hit you."

"I guess I'd just never seen such a sad, lost look on anyone as I did on his face when he saw his wife for the last time," Leslie said. "So I was especially glad when she advised him to be happy again and take a chance with Martha Wilson. We got Christmas cards from them for the next seven or eight years, and then one of his children told us they had passed away within a few days of each other, peacefully and without any regrets. So that was a really nice one. We were sad about their going, but glad they'd been so happy together."

There was a silence; then Christian cleared his throat. "Well, as much as I hate to break this up, I think it might be wise if we collected our respective children and got back home. My watch tells me it's nearly nine, and it's never been wrong yet."

"I'm afraid he's right," Roarke said, smiling. "Thank you all for being here, and for listening to these endless little reminiscences of ours."

"It was truly our pleasure, Mr. Roarke," Carl Johan told him, "and I hope we can do it again one day. Since most of us are due to leave for Arcolos in the morning to attend Prince Paolono's wedding, it may be the better part of discretion to retire for the night."

"By all means," Roarke agreed, and the gathering began to break up, with many good-nights, final birthday wishes extended to Christian, and general thanks.

"Need seatmates on the flights over to Arcolos?" Maureen asked, when she was able to catch up to Leslie. "Michiko asked us if we wanted to go, and with Brianna out of school for the summer, we thought it might be a perfect opportunity. She and Errico are footing the bill for most of our flights, except for the charter fares between here and Honolulu, or else we never could have afforded a trip like this."

"That was extremely generous," said Christian, impressed.

"You think that was generous?" Maureen said, laughing. "She's also paying for Myeko and Noelle and Dawn to come. I think she's trying to surround herself with friends." Her manner sobered. "Especially with Errico in the shape he's in."

Christian and Leslie looked at each other and both nodded slowly. "I guess we'll find out soon enough," Leslie murmured. "I only hope we make it there before it's too late. I do think Errico will do everything he possibly can to personally witness his son's wedding, but after that, who knows. We'll just have to hope for the best."

* * *

**CREDITS:** _These are the episodes I adapted for this story and the names of those who played in them._

_1) "Casting Director / Pentagram / A Little Ball"; original airdate February 17, 1979. With Lisa Hartman (Mary Hoyt / Sister Mary Theresa), John Saxon (Colin MacArthur), Phyllis Davis (Jean Arden), Don Knotts (Felix Birdsong), Abe Vigoda (Sid Gordon), Florence Henderson (Jane Garwood), Jim Burk (Paul Kendall), Edward Grover (Marsh), Cesar Romero (Sheik Kamil Abib), and Ben Davidson (Hammerhead Harris)_

_2) "The Dancer / Nobody's There"; original airdate November 17, 1979. With Max Baer (B.J. Farley), Carol Lynley (Valeska DeMarco), Toni Tennille (Betty Foster), Stepfanie Kramer (Contessa Christina Castranova), Michael Callan (Nicky Deveraux), Dick Sargent (Algernon Pepperhill), Ellen Geer (Sylvia Deveraux), and Howard Morton (Samuel Blade)_

_3) "The Chateau / White Lightning"; original airdate February 7, 1981. With Pamela Franklin (Vicky Lee), David Hedison (Claude Duncan), Carolyn Jones (Chlora MacAllister), Wendy Schaal (Ruthanne MacAllister), Richard Lineback (Otis MacAllister), Ed Begley, Jr. (Amos MacAllister), George Lindsey (Norris Scoggins), Randolph Powell (R.J. Scoggins), and Ernie W. Brown (Bobby Joe Scoggins)_

_4) "Midnight Waltz / Let Them Eat Cake"; original airdate February 12, 1983. With Lew Ayres (John Cook), Adrienne Barbeau (Adele Anthony), James Coco (Louis XVI / Terwilliger), Cathryn Damon (the baroness), Rosemary DeCamp (Carol Cook), Patrick Wayne (François), and Jane Wyatt (Martha Wilson)_

_Next up is a trip to Arcolos…and a lot of changes. Meantime, thanks for reading and for following my stories so faithfully, and I hope you all have a Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, or Happy Kwanzaa, and a Happy New Year. See you in 2013!_


End file.
